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Chapter Text

The press are on top of Harvey Dent the second he steps out of his Cherokee, a wall of whistles and cheers crashing into him from the crowd.

For a moment, it takes him aback. It’s their biggest turnout yet. Supporters have been coming out in droves at the start of each day just to catch a glimpse of the prosecution team on their way into the court building.

Some of them even carry signs, great glitter-soaked posters saying things like We <3 Apollo and Batman by Day. A lot more aren’t so much celebrating Harvey as condemning his opposition, though. They’re holding up grizzly caricatures of Salvatore Maroni, emblemed with messages like Guilty or Time’s up Moroni. It’s the last one that’s Harvey’s favourite, though it’s a secret he’ll take to the grave.

A reporter breaks away from the crowd, walking fast to keep his pace as he jogs up the steps.

‘Valerie Vale, Gotham Gazette. Mr. Dent, are your team confident in the state’s performance so far?’

It’s not the first time they’ve tried to ask him for comment and it won’t be the last, though it drums at his patience when he’s still on his first coffee of the day. Harvey tries to emulate Bruce in his polite smile for the cameras.

‘I’m afraid I’m unable to provide comment on an ongoing trial, Miss Vale. Though I’d be grateful to take this opportunity to thank our supporters. It’s an honour, and one I fight to live up to every day.’ Harvey turns back to the crowd, his earnest look becoming entirely sincere. ‘Thank you.’

Vale and the rest of the press back off once Harvey’s through the rotating doors. They’re just the street crew. The in-court reporters will already be inside, ready to go. Harvey goes back over the answer he gave her, combing it for mistakes. He can’t find any. He meant it, but it was still a good line— it should give the fans something to buzz about for a while. They’re getting close to closing now. Half of New Jersey’s going to be watching today via livestream.

Inside, the court building is floored with corporate polished granite. The guiding stripes of wood tile add a gallery feel. Polished venetian plaster walls make the bronze statuettes of long-serving judges all the more stark, and the first thing Harvey sees when he walks in—like always—is the circular tile medallion of Lady Justice inlaid in front of the entrance. Bronze, all-seeing and just from the shoulders up, she looks exactly like the head of a coin. Harvey touches the tattoo at his elbow by reflex, right along the scar.

He beelines for the elevators. The Maroni trial has been running on level eight in the largest courtroom equipped with the latest WayneTech broadcasting gear. Harvey’s stepping into the lift when his phone starts ringing through his earpiece. It’s a familiar tune: Unchained Melody by The Righteous Brothers.

Harvey taps his lobe to answer.

‘Hi, honey.’

‘Oh, good.’ He can hear Gilda’s relief even over the crackly elevator reception. ‘I caught you.’

‘Just,’ he replies with a smile, spinning his wedding ring. ‘I’m about to walk in. What’s up?’

‘Mm, nothing! Just wanted to wish you good luck— aaand to ask if you could maybe grab takeaway on the way home later? Only, I’m getting really stuck into this bust for Bruce’s auction, and I don’t wanna lose track of the oven …’

Harvey chuckles, his heart turning over. He’s sure Bruce is going to love whatever she comes up with. Knowing him, he’ll probably outbid anyone’s wildest dreams, right out of the gate.

‘Of course I can, hon. Text me what you’re hungry for. And send pics of your sculpture?’

‘Ugh, fine.’ He can hear her tools over the line. ‘But it won’t look any good yet.’

‘Agree to disagree. Maybe it will help inspire me for closing.’

‘Ha! Sal Maroni is a man of shifting faces— something like that?’

‘Why not? You’re my muse.’ The elevator doors spring open on level eight. Harvey’s sorry to have to reach for his earpiece. ‘Gotta go, hon. I love you.’

‘Love you, too!’

Level eight aims to impress with its tiled murals and rose chandeliers. A row of wooden seats line up in front of the recessed arches down the court hallway, a handful of them occupied by spectators yet to move inside. He checks his watch as he crosses the waxed marble floor. 8:52 am.

Glen Keller is there waiting for him by the courtroom doors. There’s a briefcase in one of his hands, a café bag and coffee cup in the other. He’s wearing a beige suit to match Harvey’s light brown, both of their ties unblemished white. Maybe it’s Harvey’s gratitude for the breakfast but Glen looks particularly put-together today, green-eyed and clean-shaven, hair slicked down behind his protruding ears.

Glen raises an eyebrow, handing over the food.

‘Cutting it a little fine, Apollo.’

‘Sorry, Glen.’ Harvey tosses his tie over one shoulder before he rips into the bacon and egg sandwich. ‘Didn’t realise the crowd out there had got even worse.’

‘Yeah, well. Leave half an hour earlier tomorrow. It’s your turn to pay for breakfast.’

‘Deal. Oswald here yet?’

‘Already inside.’ Glen gives him a look. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’

Harvey covers his mouth to answer, devouring the sandwich quickly so they can get inside.

‘Say it anyway.’

‘It’s our last chance to pull him out. There’s no universe where that waddling idiot doesn’t hurt us in the cross.’

Harvey shakes his head, washing the food down with a mouthful of courthouse coffee. It’s burned, but beggars can’t be choosers.

‘Trust me, Glen,’ he insists. ‘His evidence is worth it. Plus, DeLuca trips himself up all the time on hearsay. We’ve got this.’

‘Sure,’ Glen grunts, looking over Harvey’s shoulder. ‘Speaking of DeLuca …’

Harvey follows his gaze. The defence team are arriving, Miles DeLuca leading them. He’s a silver fox in his pressed black suit. His salt-and-pepper hair is combed back with gel and his tie is a shock of crimson spilling down from his throat. His three paralegals follow him into the courtroom like ducklings.

And then there’s their client.

Salvatore Maroni is cuffed at the wrists and feet in his DOJ orange jumpsuit. He still has some of that mob boss paunch. There’s a crease across his left cheek from an old scar, reaching right up to his curving forehead. His jawline is made more prominent by the easy smirk across his mouth. He shuffles his feet on the way through the door, the bailiff leading him by an elbow, a prison guard doing the same on Maroni’s other side.

Harvey shoves the last of the sandwich into his mouth, then takes his pocket square out to wipe the oil from his fingers.

‘Right,’ he says, fixing his tie. ‘Let’s go.’

Vasquez isn’t in the judge’s pulpit yet but everything else is ready to go. Spectators are seated in the gallery in and around the court reporters. Maroni’s settled into place at the defence table. He’s using the cuffs like a hammock for the back of his head as he lounges in his chair.

At the back of the room are the handful of witnesses they’re scheduled to get through today. Oswald Cobblepot is the first among them. He’s bouncing his leg with performance anxiety, black hair clinging across his forehead.

Harvey managed to talk him out of wearing the sequinned blazer he picked out—to project confidence, as Oswald had put it—but he’s still wearing a gaudy checkered shirt beneath his felt coat. Oswald walks with a custom bird’s head cane, but Glen coached him to swap it for a simpler stick. It helps the image, making him seem less like the fair-weather turncoat he actually is, and more like a broken everyman who got burned by the game.

In that context, Oswald’s nervous demeanour becomes an asset. It’s a window into what men like Salvatore Maroni do to people, the sheer damage Gotham’s underbelly leaves in its wake.

‘All rise,’ the clerk calls. Judge Vasquez breezes onto the stand to a chorus of scraping chairs and pews in the gallery, adjusting her glasses before she takes her seat. ‘The Supreme Court for Gotham City, Part 18, resumes in session. The Honourable Judge Araceli Vasquez presiding.’

‘Thank you,’ Vasquez says. ‘Please be seated. Good morning, everyone. Let’s not waste time. Our first matter is a new witness for the prosecution. If that witness could come forward to be sworn in?’

Oswald hobbles forward, leaning on his walking stick. He repeats the oath back to the foreperson reverently before he takes his seat in the witness box. Harvey approaches the podium, straightening his tie.

‘Mr. Cobblepot,’ he begins smoothly, adjusting the neck of the microphone. ‘Good morning. Could you kindly begin by describing for the jury the nature of your relationship with Mr. Maroni?’

‘Gladly.’ Oswald gives a self-effacing smile, practically beaming, before it relaxes back to something neutral. ‘I worked for Mr. Maroni for several years as muscle for hire until July last year, at which point I fled Gotham to escape his influence.’

‘And when did this relationship first commence?’

‘Toward the middle of November 2011,’ Oswald answers. ‘Mr. Maroni did not meet with me until I had already been in his employ for two weeks.’

‘Your initial meeting with Mr. Maroni, then. It occurred through a fence, an intermediary?’

‘Yes,’ Oswald confirms. ‘An acquaintance suggested I could find work as—’

‘Objection,’ DeLuca interrupts lazily. ‘Hearsay.’

Vasquez grunts.

‘I’ll overrule it. But, Mr. Dent? Some instruction, if you please.’

‘Mr. Cobblepot, if you could, please try to limit your answers to your own actions and words.’ Harvey reaches for a familiar metaphor. ‘Think of this as a story where yourself and Mr. Maroni are the only characters.’

Oswald gives a wry smile.

‘That shouldn’t pose a problem. Many of my nightmares share the same premise.’

Some chuckles ring out through the courtroom. Even Vasquez bites back a smile when she calls for order.

‘I first encountered Mr. Maroni while seeking unlawful employment as a narcotics dealer,’ Oswald explains. ‘The circles I had surrounded myself with … well, suffice to say I had existed in close proximity to Gotham’s underworld for all of my life.’

Harvey nods, repositioning.

‘And in this first encounter, would you characterise yourself as the pursuer, or was it more like you were being scouted for the role?’

‘Objection,’ DeLuca calls. ‘Leading.’

‘Overruled.’

‘More of the latter,’ Oswald replies. ‘Though I confess I was eager upon receiving Mr. Maroni’s offer. I was desperate, you see.’

‘When did your initial in-person meeting with Mr. Maroni take place, Mr. Cobblepot?’

‘November 18, 2011.’

‘And to your recollection, did Mr. Maroni ever coerce you to scout for new workers?’

‘No. While I was myself coerced into assaulting people on several occasions to secure their protection payments, this was always done in the service of agreements which were already in place.’ He grimaces at the word choice, the implication clear. ‘Mr. Maroni told me directly that, while my face could frighten anyone into falling in line, it would hardly inspire anyone to join the ring. I confess, I was relieved to wash my hands of at least that much guilt.’

Harvey lets those words hang before pressing on. As they move smoothly through the questions, Oswald’s recollections and commentary go a long way to spelling out Maroni’s guilt on the extortion charge, as well as the labour racketeering, too. Harvey has a feeling they’re going to lose on the narcotics trafficking. But if they can get two out of three, he can still put Maroni away for life.

Oswald outlines how Maroni forced him to beat people for their protection money. A lot of the specifics are restricted by police privilege, but even the broad strokes paint a picture. The entire courtroom seems to wince when Oswald outlines how Maroni kept him under the thumb through fear of what he would do to Oswald’s elderly mother.

Finally, Harvey clears his way to the grand finale.

‘I would like to ask you some questions about one night in particular, Mr. Cobblepot.’ He pauses, counting to three in his head. ‘What do you remember of March 6, 2012?’

‘That was when I first tried to leave my employment with Mr. Maroni.’

‘Could you please describe this attempt and its outcome?’

A shadow of regret falls across Oswald’s features. He licks his lips, then takes a quick drink of water.

‘Earlier that day, I had been made to beat a man close to death for failing to provide his protection payment for the month. I had what could be called a crisis of faith in the morality of my actions. I decided to take my mother and leave town.’

Oswald’s darting eyes land on Harvey with an unspoken question, and Harvey gives a small nod, encouraging him.

‘When I explained my intentions to leave Gotham to Mr. Maroni, he said nothing. He only stood and calmly approached me from behind his desk. To shake my hand, I thought. Instead, he drew a firearm from a holster on his thigh, shot me once in my left leg and twice in my right, then beat me severely with a crowbar until I lost consciousness.’

Sometimes Harvey doesn’t need to hear the tittering behind him to know a line hit home. He’s learned to sense it on his skin like air pressure in the atmosphere. He can feel it now—that thick sense of empathy—that shared sense of disgust, blooming behind his back.

‘I was in a medically induced coma for four days at Gotham General Hospital,’ Oswald says. ‘And I’ve been in physical therapy ever since.’

Harvey’s next instruction is to the clerk.

‘I’d like to call State’s Exhibit 32-dash-1 onto the screens, please.’

The image comes up on the courtroom monitors. It’s a hospital photo, the telltale bed rails in the background. The figure in the foreground is a cannulated Oswald, recognisable even with half his face covered by blood-soaked bandages. His right eye is hidden entirely. With so much blood, it’s impossible to know if he still has it or whether it’s been gouged out.

‘Mr. Cobblepot,’ Harvey says gently, drawing his attention. ‘Could you please describe this image for the jury?’

‘Yes. This is an image taken when I first arrived at Gotham General, before my emergency surgery.’ Oswald says it almost eagerly, like he’s desperate to make himself useful. ‘The damage is mostly from where the crowbar broke my eye socket and cheekbone.’

‘Moving to 32-dash-2 now,’ Harvey says. The next photo the clerk brings up is even worse again; a mid-surgery picture of an open leg wound, the muscle and tendons all exposed. ‘Same question.’

‘This one was taken in the operating theatre two hours and twelve minutes after the previous,’ Oswald says. ‘I was in emergency surgery for almost all of that time, a team of seven surgeons working to save my legs. My thigh is vivisected because of a hidden bullet shard. They had to look for it in exploratory surgery.’

‘Last one, Mr. Cobblepot. 32-dash-3, please.’

The screens change again. This time, they show a scan of a letter printed on hospital letterhead. Part of the page is highlighted in yellow.

‘Could you please describe the nature of this document?’

‘This is a surgical report detailing the procedure of my emergency surgery,’ Oswald says. ‘It was written by senior resident Andrew Gilmore and signed off on by Chief of Surgery, Dr. Faye Somers.’

‘And could you just read for the jury the highlighted section in paragraph five, please.’

‘The patient was brought into the O.R. in critical condition,’ Oswald reads, ‘suffering from severe hypovolemic shock and resultant cardiac arrhythmia. Patient’s cardiac function ceased during surgery necessitating medical resuscitation on two separate occasions.’

Harvey closes his file.

‘No further questions, Your Honour.’

‘Mr. DeLuca,’ Vasquez calls. ‘I invite you to begin your cross-examination.’

Oswald Cobblepot is a known liability as far as witnesses go. His past is as checkered as the pattern on his shirt. But when push comes to shove, Harvey genuinely believes his testimony is worth the risk if it means loading more ammunition against Maroni. All the same, he braces himself as he returns to his chair. He’s fully prepared to have to pull any and every objection in the book to get as much of Cobblepot’s cross-examination struck as possible.

DeLuca clears his throat, then leans forward to the defence’s microphone.

‘The defence waives the cross, Your Honour. No further questions.’

Titters break out through the court. Harvey goes on red alert, Glen clearly on the same page alongside him. His co-counsel laughs quietly out of the side of his mouth, then whispers a three-word question.

‘What the fuck?’

‘They have a smoking gun,’ Harvey grunts. He covers his mouth so the cameras won’t catch it. ‘Or they think they do.’

‘Well, then.’ Even Vasquez is visibly thrown. ‘In that case, I suggest we push to make good use of the unexpected leeway in our schedule. Any protests?’ None arise. ‘Good. Then let’s keep going until eleven-thirty when we’ll break for recess. Defence? It’s your witness.’

The defence’s next witness comes forward from the back of the court. He’s middle-aged with wispy, thinning hair. He’s visibly older than DeLuca, probably in his early fifties. The foreperson instructs him to raise his right hand.

‘Do you swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?’

‘I do,’ the man answers with a curt nod.

‘Please state your full name to the court.’

‘Alexander Jeremiah Lawson.’

Harvey feels an odd sense of déjà vu at the name. He wonders vaguely if he’s seen the man before. First, DeLuca questions Lawson on his relationship to Mr. Maroni, establishing a baseline justifying his presence on the stand. Lawson answers that he’s been a bodyguard to the man since 2013, ever since he retired from the police force after 20 years of service.

‘Mr. Lawson, you say you worked in the police force? Were you local to Gotham?’

It’s an easy start for Harvey, pulling him right out of trying to place the man’s face.

‘Objection,’ he interrupts. ‘Compound.’

‘Agreed,’ Judge Vasquez grants. ‘One at a time, Mr. DeLuca.’

DeLuca tries again.

‘Mr. Lawson, were you local to Gotham when you were on active police duty?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Glen scrawls something and nudges the pad of sticky notes toward Harvey:

FISHY?

‘And in that time you served with the GCPD,’ DeLuca continues. ‘Did you ever have contact with Mr. Maroni?’

‘No.’ Lawson shakes his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Can I take that to mean your first meeting with Mr. Maroni came after you retired from the force?’

‘Yes, sir. When I was seeking new work.’

‘And would you please describe for the jury how you came into this contact with Mr. Maroni?’

‘Objection,’ Glen calls. ‘Relevance.’

But DeLuca has his answer ready to go.

‘Your Honour, establishing the context around this working relationship ties into the value of whatever testimony Mr. Lawson will go on to provide. Especially on the heels of testimony by Mr. Cobblepot, suggesting involvement by Mr. Maroni in organised crime.’

‘Overruled,’ Vasquez concedes. ‘Mr. Lawson, you can answer.’

‘Yes.’ Lawson blinks. ‘I’m sorry. Could you repeat the question?’

‘Of course.’ DeLuca runs a finger along the podium like he’s checking it for dust. ‘Could you please describe how you first came into contact with Mr. Maroni?’

‘I was working as a bouncer for a bar,’ Lawson explains. ‘At Noonan’s, in West Hill. An employee of Mr. Maroni approached me there and asked if I would—’

‘Objection,’ Harvey barks. ‘Hearsay.’

‘Sustained.’

‘Mr. Lawson,’ DeLuca grimaces. ‘Please testify only to your own personal statements.’

Lawson hesitates, mentally rewording his answer.

‘I accepted an offer of employment … communicated to me by an employee of Mr. Maroni.’

Glen draws a breath but Harvey lays a hand over his wrist. He shakes his head. It wouldn’t land. They’re being more careful now, sidestepping the hearsay by focussing on impressions instead.

‘As you understood them,’ DeLuca continues. ‘What were the terms of that employment?’

‘That I provide full-time bodyguard duty over Mr. Maroni’s person, replacing an outgoing security officer on his detail.’

‘And how long after receiving this offer did you personally meet with Mr. Maroni?’

‘Six weeks, sir.’

‘Six weeks?’ DeLuca echoes. ‘Why the wait, Mr. Lawson?’

‘Mr. Maroni was kind enough to hold the position while I finished my contract with Noonan’s, sir.’

‘I see. And in those six weeks, were you in contact with Mr. Maroni in any other way?’

‘Yes sir,’ Lawson answers. ‘Through existing employees of Mr. Maroni.’

Harvey suddenly has a hunch on what play they’re going to make. His eyelashes flutter with fatigue.

DeLuca nods, acting like he’s thinking it over.

‘So these employees acted as intermediaries?’

‘Objection,’ Harvey calls. ‘Leading.’

‘Sustained. Don’t feed the witness, Mr. DeLuca.’

‘My apologies, Your Honour.’ DeLuca says it smoothly but he doesn’t look sorry in the least. He reaches down to straighten his blood red tie.

‘Mr. Lawson, with relevance to this trial.’ He’s choosing his words more carefully now. ‘Is there anyone in this courtroom currently, excepting Mr. Maroni, who you have interacted with before while on the job?’

‘Objection,’ Harvey snaps.

Judge Vasquez raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Grounds?’

‘Takes your pick. Leading, calls for hearsay, privileged answer.’

‘One at a time, Mr. Dent.’

‘Alright, let’s start with hearsay.’

‘Hearsay?’ DeLuca has the gall to smirk. ‘I asked whether interactions occurred, not what the content of those interactions may have been.’

‘Overruled.’

‘Privileged answer,’ Harvey says. ‘Any response would fall under confidentiality restrictions.’

‘Your Honour,’ DeLuca laughs. ‘I would hold that “interactions” is surely a broad enough a characterisation to warrant a non-confidential response?’

‘Overruled,’ Vasquez decides again. ‘And I’m overruling leading, too. Let’s keep this moving, please.’

‘I’ll ask again for convenience, Mr. Lawson.’ DeLuca speaks slowly into the microphone. ‘Excepting Mr. Maroni, is there anyone else in this courtroom with whom you interacted with while you were on the job?’

Lawson leans forward to his own microphone, mirroring him.

‘Yes, sir.’

Murmurs go up around the courthouse. Several eyes shift to Oswald, still lingering in the gallery. Press cameras shutter and click. Harvey bristles. This has front-page potential.

‘Told you,’ Glen huffs, keeping his voice down. ‘We shouldn’t have brought him in.’

Harvey grunts his answer, finally ready to concede the point. No wonder DeLuca wasn’t worried about cross-examining Oswald. They had a strategy to discredit him all along.

‘Mr. Lawson,’ DeLuca continues. ‘Could you identify that person now?’

‘I could.’

‘Do so, please.’

And Lawson points—

—but not at Oswald.

He points right at the prosecution table as he answers:

‘District Attorney Harvey Dent.’

The sudden uproar through the gallery has Judge Vasquez banging her gavel, calling for order. Harvey’s stomach drops. The fatigue taking root at the base of his skull grows ten sizes, blooming into a migraine. His voice comes out in a croak.

‘Sidebar, Your Honour?’

‘You’d better,’ Vasquez sighs. ‘Get over here, both of you.’

Harvey and DeLuca approach the bench. Harvey forces himself to unclench his fists, knowing full well that the cameras are watching his every move. It’s difficult when he can see DeLuca’s infuriating smirk out of the corner of his eye. It’s beyond underhanded. Harvey’s never worked with Maroni in his entire life.

‘Gentlemen,’ Vasquez rumbles. ‘We are flying perilously close to a mistrial. It’s in nobody’s best interests if these past three weeks were a waste of our time.’

‘We’re on the same page.’ Harvey glances at DeLuca. ‘This is theatre at best, ad hominem at worst.’

DeLuca holds up his palms in a half-shrug.

‘Then there shouldn’t be anything to jeopardise the trial here, should there?’

It’s a bluff and Harvey’s happy to call it. Judge Vasquez sees that determination and breathes out another sigh.

‘There better not be,’ she tells them. ‘Get back to it.’

‘Mr. Lawson,’ DeLuca starts again, once they’ve reset. ‘To ensure there are no misunderstandings here, could I please confirm—the prosecution allowing—that you are alleging to have met Mr. Dent in the past while carrying out the duties of your job?’

‘I am.’

‘And can you please clarify the circumstances of this interaction? Without quoting anyone’s words but your own.’

‘I can.’

Lawson drags in a deep breath, then continues in a rush.

‘I was a first responder to Mr. Dent’s home in 1992 after a report of child abuse by a neighbour—’

‘Objection!’ Glen shouts beside him, shooting up out of his chair, but Harvey doesn’t hear the justification because he’s sinking through the floor.

He can hear the coin flip, tink, and the whoosh-whoosh of it spinning in mid-air. Heads I hit you, tails I don’t. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh— Judge Vasquez snaps something, the gavel bangs, Maroni’s watching along eagerly from the defence table. He’s smirking at Harvey with one quirked brow.

Heads I hit you, tails I don’t.

Whoosh-whoosh—

Ting.

His father’s hairy hand comes up off the coin and it’s—

—heads.

It’s always heads.

Go down for a nap, Harv, someone else growls through his mouth. Let me handle this.

Chapter Text

One week later, Bruce is using foundation to cover a bruise. The damage to his shoulder is worse than he thought it would be. It’s a patchy deep purple right from the edge of his collarbone all the way across his rotator cuff. He uses his bedroom mirror to cover it up, gingerly dabbing over the bruise where his collar won’t reach, hissing at the ache.

He managed to snatch a few-hour nap after he got in this morning. It’s more than he’s had at all this week. With Gotham’s best district attorney locked up in Arkham, petty criminals have been feeling very brave. It keeps Batman busy on the streets at night.

Gutter criminals aside, major crime has been ramping up too. Last night, the Bat signal called him over because of a prison break at Blackgate Penitentiary. GCPD were nervous about a potential run-in with maximum security’s biggest threat.

Bane.

He’s only known by the mononym. There’s no record of his birth certificate. It was most likely destroyed by the people’s army during a recent attempt at genocide in his home country. Bruce has trawled archives and deep-buried criminal channels for long enough to be certain that there’s nobody alive with knowledge of Bane’s history. The moniker is either part of his birthname, forgotten to time, or synonymous for what he’s been to Gotham ever since he arrived from Santa Prisca: a menace.

But what everyone knows is that Bane possesses ungodly strength. With his mask turning his face into something robotic and calculating, he has the look of someone who would be leading the Latinx prison gang if he had the inclination to care. Instead, Bane quietly spends his time in Blackgate meditating, breathing anaesthetic gas to overcome Venom withdrawal pain. Every report Bruce has ever seen describes the man as eerily calm.

But Bane turned out to be the least of Bruce’s worries compared to the Tallymark Killer.

Bruce went three rounds against Victor Zsasz before he caught up to him on the prison roof. Zsasz was armed with a sharpened section of broken water pipe and a determination to collect more kills, a nightmare come to life in his prison jumpsuit. The searchlights from the helicopters raked over them, the prison alarms whooping on repeat. Bruce can still see it when he shuts his eyes: Zsasz, red-eyed and alopecia-bald right to his eyelashes. It gives him more real estate for the scarification lines all over his skin. Grouped batches of five, each line represents one of his murders. Bruce remembers the two new cuts bleeding sluggishly down his cheekbone.

He had no choice but to throw Zsasz over the side of the building in the end, just to stop him from cutting Batman’s throat with his prison shiv. The last-second fire of the grappling gun saved Zsasz’s life, but it nearly ripped Bruce’s arm from its socket in the process.

Now it’s the morning after and Bruce gets dressed in a fine suit, hiding Batman away behind charisma and wealth before he shuts himself into his office. He dials into the Wayne Tower boardroom. There are two meetings he can’t miss today. They’re nothing groundbreaking, which somehow makes them harder to stomach. He’s grateful when Alfred wordlessly brings him a mug of coffee and a plate of mushroom risotto.

The first meeting is an update on the latest moves by Wayne Aerospace. The other is purely financial, with the executive team explaining some shifts in the budget to accommodate new hires on the Tower’s ground floor. Bruce is mostly watching on as a figurehead and giving his approval where it’s needed. It’s at the very end of the second meeting that one of the newest hires speaks up.

‘Mr. Wayne, I wanted to ask if you have any advice about the press. We’ve been getting questions to the front desks for comment on Harvey Dent.’

Bruce schools his expression to stay calm. Truthfully, it comes as a surprise. Requests for comment don’t usually filter to frontline staff. The obvious answer is that she should run her query by the marketing team, not him— but then, everyone in the boardroom knows the situation is a degree more complicated than that.

The press aren’t sniffing around for news. They want gossip, prying into playboy Bruce Wayne and his personal friendship with Gotham’s favourite lawyer.

‘Let’s make the messaging we gave management our policy across the board,’ Bruce says. ‘Daniel, can you please ask Anna to send a brief to all staff? Nothing fancy. Just to clue everyone into the leadership direction.’

The young marketing officer nods, taking note.

‘Of course, Mr. Wayne.’

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose once he’s off the call. Fatigue pushes at the corners of his eyes.

There’s a cold thing inside him, something hollow and tired. It’s chipping away at his patience as he moves through the vacuous hallways. It’s like living in a museum. The artworks and décor in the Manor are unchanged, even after all these years. It’s the complete reverse of when a child goes missing and the parents leave their room untouched. Preserving the Manor has never felt like much of a choice.

And it’s the lack of sleep, but it’s Harvey, too— not to mention this place. Bruce learned to live alongside the heartache a long time ago, but it’s getting harder to ignore the hallowed feeling of so much unused space.

He finds Alfred in the kitchen, a handful of dishes soaking in the sink. Alfred’s sitting at the table with his jacket unbuttoned. He’s drumming the tip of a fountain pen against his manifold, but he stops when Bruce walks in.

‘Stir crazy, sir?’

‘Getting there.’ Bruce nods toward the sink. ‘Need any help?’

Alfred titters, closing his manifold.

‘Things must be more dire than I imagined. That, or my employer has been replaced by a pod-person.’

Bruce rolls up his sleeves before filling the sink basin with water and dishwashing liquid.

‘Don’t stop on my account,’ he grunts. ‘Go on. Laugh it up.’

‘You’ll forgive an old man his distractions.’

‘Work got you down?’

‘Quite.’ Alfred leans back in his chair. ‘I’ve been going back and forth between the deconstructed chicken parmesan sliders for a main or an elevated selection of miniature pizzas.’

‘That doesn’t sound like your usual fare.’

‘Nothing escapes your notice, sir,’ Alfred responds drily. ‘This is the menu for the charity benefit at the orphanage.’

Bruce glances over his shoulder at him, surprised. He can tell by Alfred’s expression that he’s serious.

‘The one in December? That’s two months from now.’

‘Yes, well. Early to bed, early to rise, sir.’

There’s a peaceful silence for a minute between them as Bruce washes the dishes. It lasts all the way until he reaches the cutlery, which is how he knows to brace himself when Alfred draws a breath to speak.

‘You know you can’t hide from the reporters forever, Master Bruce.’

‘I know,’ Bruce says. ‘And I’m not going to. I’m just … collecting myself, before I put on the act.’

Bruce knows how to read Alfred’s silences. This one is something hesitant, something paternal.

‘Whatever thought you’re holding in, you can say it.’ Bruce doesn’t turn around, keeping his attention on the sponge and the scourer. ‘I wouldn’t be in here if I wasn’t prepared for tough love.’

Alfred’s next words are weary.

‘There comes a time when collecting yourself crosses over into protecting yourself, sir, and stronger men than you have failed to notice when that time comes. A word of advice?’

‘Lay it on me.’

‘Visit him. Once you face Master Dent himself, I’d wager the reporters will mean little by comparison.’

Bruce unplugs the sink, letting the dirty water drain away. He wishes it was that easy to drain away the crawling feeling under his skin. It’s a kind of helpless self-blame, like he learned a secret not meant for him.

‘What if I don’t like what I find?’

‘Another wager I’d be glad to take.’

‘I’m serious. When we were kids, at Yale, there were … warning signs. I ignored them. And I could see he was in over his head at the D.A.’s office. I ignored that, too.’

Alfred swears under his breath.

‘The longer you spend in that damn cowl, the more burdens you assume that were never yours to carry. You’re not responsible for what happened in that courtroom.’

‘I could have stopped it from happening if I’d been a better friend.’

‘My word. Why must everything be your shortcomings, your failure? You don’t blame Gilda for not being a better wife, do you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘What about Keller for not being a better colleague? Or even Master Dent himself, for not knowing his limits?’

‘It’s not the same. They’re not Batman.’

Alfred looks at him with something almost like disappointment.

‘There are times,’ he says, ‘when I wish I knew how to tell you that you’re not, either.’

It makes Bruce wish he was wearing the suit right now. It makes him wish it was sewn into his very skin. He’d take anything if it meant putting a barrier between himself and that piercing gaze.

Batman’s his armour, but it’s a heavy armour. It’s encumbering, sometimes debilitating, and there are moments like this one where Bruce is sure Alfred figured that out long before he did.

In the wrong waters, Alfred’s eyes are screaming, that suit is going to drown you.

If Alfred’s right, then this isn’t a problem he can solve as Batman.

But it’s not a problem he’s brave enough to confront as Bruce.

‘What do I do?’ he mutters. ‘Just walk in there blind and hope Harvey’s happy to see me?’

‘Lord above,’ Alfred huffs. ‘Despite my best efforts in your youth, you can be frightfully dim at times, sir.’ He turns Bruce around by the shoulders, then rolls his sleeves down for him and fixes his buttons. ‘All these nights playing bats and robbers, tackling crime and justice single-handedly.’

Alfred pulls Bruce’s phone from his shirt pocket, closing Bruce’s fingers around it meaningfully.

‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten Bruce Wayne has friends.’

Lucius answers his phone after the third ring.

‘Bruce. It’s been a minute.’

Bruce takes the call on his balcony, leaning a little on the rail to look out over the grounds. The sun is catching on the hedge maze. It’s overgrown with thorns on every edge, but there are roses blooming all through it, too. He can smell them on the breeze.

‘Lucius.’ Bruce smiles, glad to hear his voice. ‘How are the kids?’

‘Ah, they’re brilliant little terrors who deserve better than to be your icebreaker.’

‘Can you blame me?’ Bruce chuckles. ‘It’s that or I ask about your health, the weather or how you feel about last night’s final score.’

‘No point,’ Lucius sighs. ‘It’s not as if any of those have changed lately, especially not Corduroy’s forward pitch.’

There’s a second where Lucius doesn’t speak and Bruce can hear his kids in the background, either laughing or shouting.

‘Call me a skeptic, Bruce, but I don’t think you’re calling about tomorrow’s board meeting.’

‘You’re right. I’m not.’ Bruce sits down at the balcony table, tired beyond belief. ‘When did you last hear from Harvey?’

‘Last month,’ Lucius grunts. ‘He updated my will for me. Been meaning to get it done since Lucas was born. And before you go worrying, no, I’m not sick. It’s just a ritual I’ve got, since my tribe keeps on growing.’

‘Lucius, did he seem like he was struggling?’

‘You mean, did he seem like a bomb waiting to go off?’

Bruce says nothing.

‘I wish I had something to tell you. He just seemed like the same old Apollo to me. I mean, I knew he was under the microscope with this whole Maroni thing. We all did. But I don’t think anyone saw this coming. You seen the court transcript?’

‘I have.’

There’s a noise from the other end of the call, a door clicking shut, and the background sound of the kids disappears.

‘Then you know as much as me. More, probably.’

Lucius is skirting around the edges of what he wants to say. It’s like a ticking timer, making Bruce turn tense all over.

‘Did you know?’ The implication is clear even before Lucius clarifies. ‘About the abuse.’

Bruce closes his eyes against the sharp stab of regret. He did know, but he didn’t, too. He’d joined enough of the dots to have an idea, a blurry outline in his mind of what must have happened before they met. The subject changes whenever conversation veered toward home. The way Harv flinched away the only time Bruce found the courage to brush their hands together. The scars Bruce glimpsed when they’d get changed after track, criss-crossing down Harvey’s spine.

‘It came up when we were at Yale.’ It’s half a lie, but that somehow seems easier than the truth. ‘He hadn’t mentioned it since. I thought he’d put it behind him.’

‘That’s easier said than done.’

Bruce had come right out and asked, once. The memory has gone blurry by now because they’d been drinking themselves half-blind in their dorm. It’s lost all its edges in the years since, all its little details forgotten to time.

What happened to you back home?

What Bruce has never forgotten was Harvey’s answering silence. The way Harvey looked right through him had Bruce feeling like he was drinking with a stranger.

‘The doctors, the psychiatrists,’ Lucius says. ‘They’ll know where to start.’

‘I know,’ Bruce sighs. ‘Thanks, Lucius. I’ll see you at the board meeting.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll forward the agenda to your secretary. Try to at least glance at it this time.’

Bruce gives a brief smile.

‘No promises.’

He goes to disconnect the call but Lucius gets there first.

Bruce sighs, mentally ticking the call off his to-do list before he checks the time. It’s hours yet before sundown. It can’t come fast enough. He’s longing to slip into the suit and forget about all of this for a while, get in an easy fight or two with a mugger or a looter. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll even run into Joker.

He could do with a laugh.

Chapter Text

Joker checks his new tattoos while he cooks, checking for any peeling. He can’t find any. The four suits run up the sides of his forearms; a red diamond over a black spade on one, a black club over a red heart on the other.

It took a couple of tries to find a tattoo artist who didn’t immediately panic and try to call the cops just at the sight of him. But the third try was a winner: Aram, a doped-out Armenian man with aspirations to become a stage magician. Joker taught him a beginner’s level trick with the never-ending handkerchiefs he keeps up his sleeves. When the last symbol was finished, the man pulled Joker in for a selfie, poking his tongue out while making a rock and roll gesture with his free hand. Joker gave him a shout-out on OnlyFans. Ever since, the tattoo parlour has been booked out months in advance.

The tattoos are healing well for the two-week mark. Joker loves how they turned out. He loves his theme, how unique he is in the cast of Gotham’s characters. He’s been so happy lately, relishing in all the attention, giddy that he and Harley are even getting fans. They’re mostly under twenty-fives on the queer spectrum, representation-starved and open-minded enough to understand the point behind his schemes.

He still manages to sneak in a kidnapping here and there, of course. He has to keep Batman on his toes somehow. But he’s careful to ensure that it’s always people who have it coming—open racists and crooked police, phone scammers and climate deniers—the kind of creeps his Bat never goes after because he’s too busy kicking in mobsters and terrorists.

Joker gives a dreamy sigh as he flips a pancake, smiling at the thought. He loves him so much.

He can tell Harley’s home from work when he hears the balcony door sliding open.

‘Hey, bestie.’ He’s up to the scrambled eggs, cracking them into a bowl and adding milk. ‘You hungry? I’m making breakfast for dinner! There are pancakes, bacon, sausages—’

He trails off when he sees the look on her face.

‘Oh no. What happened? Did that piece of shit try to call you again?’ Joker whisks the eggs violently. ‘Because I found his address last week, I just didn’t want to tell you in case—’

‘It ain’t Oz.’

That gives Joker reason for pause. Harley’s been on cloud nine lately because of her blooming romance with Poison Ivy. Her ex has been the only thing with a shot at ruining that good mood. If this isn’t Oz’s fault, then Joker’s thrown.

The quake in Harley’s voice is entirely new. Joker struggles to mentally align it with the right emotion. It’s too soft to be anger, but there’s too much bite for it to be sadness. He’s fairly sure it’s not anxiety, either. On the rare occasions when Harley’s nervous, she tends to slip into yelling just to get any words out at all. This is breathy, almost gasping. If Joker had to guess—

—he would call this fear.

‘J, I think—’ Harley waves her hands a little at her sides. ‘I think something bad is goin’ on in Arkham.’

Joker finds it all too easy to believe.

He didn’t really consider himself a patient at Arkham when he was there. He was well-aware he could break out at any time. The only reason he stayed put was because he promised Batman he would let the doctors give him a psych eval. But given his doctor deemed him well enough not only to clear the test, but to bust him out? Well, that was more than good enough for Joker. He washed his hands of Arkham the same way he would wash away snot after a sneeze.

It wasn’t so easy to shake the feeling Arkham gave him, though. Not being able to choose what happened next made him deeply uneasy. With a team of doctors controlling every aspect of his schedule, it was difficult not to feel like an inmate rather than a patient.

Joker nudges the scrambled eggs so that they don’t stick before he turns off the stove. He moves the pan to a cold element.

‘Talk to me,’ he says, turning to face her. ‘What happened?’

Harley chews her lip as she eases into one of the barstools.

‘You know that lawyer who broke down in court last week?’

‘Of course.’

After all, Harvey Dent is one of the leading theories of Batman’s real identity. That’s exactly why Joker has stayed home the past few nights. He’s avoiding the news and the rooftops, terrified that Batman won’t be there.

‘Dent ended up with you, didn’t he?’

‘He was meant to,’ Harley says. ‘But a doctor with more experience than me changed the roster.’

Joker starts cutting up oranges while she talks. He needs to keep his hands occupied or they’re going to turn violent.

‘Who?’

‘That’s just it. I don’t know. I didn’t question it. I mean, it made sense. Dent’s high-profile and I’m still in my first year. But then …’ She trails off to try one of his pancakes. ‘Shit. These are good. What’s your secret?’

‘Mountain Dew in the batter. But then?’

‘Mm, but then he got moved into solitary.’

‘Solitary?’

‘Yep. And suddenly all his records are confidential and the past schedules are redacted.’

Joker didn’t even know Arkham had a solitary. The thought of being cooped up in some soundless, windowless cell has him screwing up his nose in distaste.

It just doesn’t seem necessary. He met a handful of the other patients before Harley sprung him. Most weren’t so much dangerous as they were genuinely ill. There were exceptions, sure. But never once did he hear any of them being threatened with something so severe.

‘The security footage is doctored,’ Harley adds. ‘It cuts out whenever he leaves his room. All I know is they dragged him down there sometime last night. He screamed the whole way, shouting something about heads. It’s always heads.’

Joker swallows. Harvey Dent can’t be Batman, then. Batman is the Dark Knight, not the damsel in distress. Besides, he’s too practical to ever let himself end up in that situation.

Dent can’t be him. There’s no way.

‘I think someone’s hurting him.’ Harley’s voice is almost a whisper. ‘Pushin’ him. But I don’t know what they’re pushing him toward.’

It’s not him. It’s not. That’s not his Bat down there losing his mind while doctors conspire to keep him in their stable of lunatics. And just to prove it, Joker’s going to go in there himself and get a good look.

He’ll check Dent for Batman’s scars, and when he doesn’t find them he’ll be able to cross another person off the list of his darling’s potential secret identities. And then? Then Joker will go kick the shit out of whoever did this, partly because they deserve it and partly because they made him worry, and he won’t stop until the whole place reeks of Smylex and blood—

Okay, no. Calm down. You’re getting ahead of yourself.

Joker talks himself back from the ledge. Maybe there’s no need to go right to Dent. If he can get confirmation that Batman is still out here and not in there, then he can take things slow. Joker can tackle this like someone with more than two brain cells. Maybe he won’t even jeopardise Harley’s job.

‘Let’s find out together,’ Joker declares. ‘We’ll work it from both ends. You as a doctor, me as a patient.’

Harley blinks at him.

‘You’d go back into Arkham for me?’

‘Harley,’ Joker says sternly, pouring the juice through a strainer. ‘I would eat a brick for you. There’s no fucking way I’m letting you go back there alone.’

It’s not that it’s a lie. It’s just that it’s not the only truth. But something about I’m worried Harvey Dent is Batman sounds a little too desperate, even for him.

‘I’ll go find Batman tonight,’ Joker says, trying to sound normal. ‘I haven’t seen him in a few days, anyway. I’m sure he’ll be peachy keen to throw me in the nut ward. And then I’ll do some snooping, and you’ll do some snooping, and between us we’ll figure out who’s doing this. I’ll break out using my feminine wiles and then we’ll go pay the good doctor a little home visit. You can be a scary surgeon, I’ll be a sexy little nurse. And let me tell you, bestie. We won’t be giving out any rebates.’ Joker grins. ‘How does that sound, monkeyface?’

Harley crosses around the bench and hugs Joker so tight that it makes his back hurt.

‘I’m so fuckin’ grateful for you,’ she says into his shoulder. ‘You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.’

Joker giggles. He has so much affection for her, sometimes it still takes him by surprise.

‘You, too.’ His eyes sparkle as he leans in. ‘Grateful enough that you’d do the dishes?’

Harley shakes her head, hugging him tighter.

‘Not a fuckin’ chance, boo.’

Chapter Text

Joker would be the first to admit he’s phoned this one in.

It’s short notice, after all. So he decides to take it easy. Sure, he tosses a couple canisters of laughing gas into Victoria Station to make a big entrance. But the Smylex formula is watered down tonight from knock-’em-out to make-’em-giggle.

By the time the smoke clears and the chuckling commuters have caught their breath, Joker’s sitting comfortably in the centre of the station, blowing up balloons for the commuters passing by.

It’s the kids being dragged along by their parents who are especially entranced. Before long, Joker has a little audience watching him twist his balloons into animal shapes. Some parents take their phones out to film him. He does the first 30 or so balloons with helium but when that small canister runs out, Joker switches to plain air. He fixes those balloons onto plastic sticks, though, so the kids can still have the illusion of them bobbing along above their heads.

Then he hears that sound. It’s his favourite sound in the whole world, that shoosh flutter zing—

Joker throws himself backward, crashing his back to the station floor. The batarang hammers into the platform right where his head had been. It makes a small burst of brick dust.

A smile bursts across Joker’s face. He’s so relieved he could cry as he straightens up. Batman’s all hostile and focussed, his mouth a tight concave line tipped downward in a glower, fists clenched by his sides. There’s a mechanical whir as the cowl lenses lock in.

I knew he wasn’t you, Joker screams inside. I never doubted you for a second!

He only holds it in because at least three parents are still livestreaming.

Joker slips into character with a fond familiarity. It’s not the first time he’s had to do damage control for the Dark Knight’s reputation.

‘Batman!’ Joker gasps, scandalised. He hops up from the ground and hides one kid’s eyes behind his coattails, hissing at Batman in a stage whisper. ‘Have a little restraint, would you? There are kids here.’ Then Joker raises his voice with a bright, beaming smile for the cameras. ‘It’s okay, everybody! He was just pretending to try and chop my head off!’

‘Joker.’ Batman grabs him by the forearm, dragging him toward the exit. ‘You’re coming with me.’

Joker stumbles after him, waving over his shoulder.

‘Bye guys!’

The kids chorus it back to him with waves of their own.

‘Shut up,’ Batman growls. ‘Don’t talk to them.’

‘Sure,’ Joker giggles. Anything you want.

He gazes lovingly at the back of his darling’s head, barely paying attention to where they’re going. Batman drags him into the first empty alleyway he seems to find, until Joker clocks the Batmobile behind the skip bins. His Bat must have dropped everything as soon as #Joker started trending online. It makes Joker all warm inside, genuinely touched, and he goes to say as much—

—when Batman’s fist knocks him into the wall.

Joker hisses. That one actually hurt a little.

‘Um, ow?’ He rolls the shoulder that hit the brick, checking the bone didn’t dislocate. He can already tell his jaw is going to bruise. ‘Are you at least going to tell me what crime I committed? Was it loitering or busking without a permit? You go ahead and tell me because I really don’t know.’

‘Sorry.’

Joker just laughs.

‘You must have hit me harder than I thought! I could have sworn you just—’

‘I’m sorry,’ Batman says again. ‘It’s been a hard day.’

Oh.

Joker can see it, now; the tension in Batman’s shoulders, the clench to his jaw. He’s even furling and unfurling his hands on repeat. It makes Joker’s skin prickle with guilt. He’s been so selfish, hasn’t he? He was so relieved his darling was okay that he didn’t even notice his darling isn’t okay.

Ha. That’s funny. They both came out tonight needing the other one’s help. Joker needed a no-questions-asked alibi into Arkham, and Batman needed to blow off some steam. The least Joker can do is make tonight worth his darling’s while. He knows how much their bouts help the vigilante relax, even if he’s too macho to admit it out loud.

‘Ooh, I get it.’ Joker makes his voice breathy. ‘You’re looking to pound out some frustration, huh?’

Batman’s mouth twists with discomfort.

‘Don’t say it like that.’

‘Don’t you go all shy on me now, darling. You just dragged me into an alley with you so nobody will hear how you make me moan and cry out.’ Joker undoes his tie, rolling his sleeves to the elbows. He looks at Batman expectantly. ‘Well? C’mon! Put ‘em up!’

‘Wait,’ Batman says, holding up his hands. Then he offers up his jaw. ‘Take a free shot.’

Joker just stares.

‘I mean it. I hit you when you weren’t looking. That wasn’t fair.’

‘Then close your eyes,’ Joker blurts out on autopilot, barely able to think. ‘You said I wasn’t looking.’

‘Fine,’ Batman grimaces. ‘Don’t make me regret this.’

Joker doesn’t have the heart to tease him, to tell him it looks like he already does.

He checks first to make sure the cowl lenses have that slightly darkened tint. He knows what to look for. He’s seen the shutters flicker whenever Bats blinks. Joker only gets closer once he’s sure his eyes are closed, studying him for any kind of clue.

It scared him half to death thinking Bats could be in Arkham. Joker doesn’t want to know who he is under there— well, he does, but he doesn’t think they’re ready for that yet. If he could at least get a hint though, he’d have something to go on next time. He’d at least be able to narrow things down.

Batman’s skin is tan, kissed by the sun. The barest beginnings of a five o’clock shadow dust along his square jaw. His lips are thin but part of that’s because he’s bracing himself for a hit.

God. Even just that square section the cowl doesn’t cover, his jaw and the bottom half of his cheeks, makes Joker weak in the knees. He’s just so handsome.

Joker touches his forearms, avoiding the gauntlets’ barbs. He wants so badly to feel those arms wrap around him tender and sweet, to press himself up against Batman and kiss him until he knows the inside of his mouth as well as the outside. Batman jerks at the touch but doesn’t open his eyes.

‘I thought you were trying to surprise me.’

Right. Batman wants Joker to fight him, not to stand around daydreaming about his lips. It’s all the clown can do to step backward.

‘Don’t you worry, love. I’m sure gonna.’

Then Joker reaches down deep inside himself and claps Batman over the ear.

It sends the Dark Knight staggering off-balance with a growl. Joker knows he has to take that advantage while he can. He quickly grabs the cowl’s ears, driving a knee up into Batman’s jaw. But the Bat is recovering already. He grabs Joker’s shoulders hard to keep him from contorting away.

‘That was two.’

‘Even the scales, then. It’s your turn.’

What comes next is the last thing Joker expects. Batman brings his mouth in so close, hands pinning him in a vice grip.

Joker’s mind hammers to a halt.

Oh. Oh, please. Joker can feel his excited breaths right there, right on his own mouth. He can’t stop his own lips from falling open to meet him. Kiss me, baby. Please kiss me, please just kiss me—

‘Careful what you wish for,’ Batman purrs—

—and knees Joker right in the fucking balls.

‘Agh!’

The sharp bite of it radiates right to his stomach, curling in there like he’s going to vomit. For once, Joker can’t talk. He can only groan, feeling like the hit didn’t just clock him in the nuts but got him everywhere from the chest down.

His eyes water as he stumbles back. He leans up against one of the alley walls, thunking his head against the brickwork while he waits for his dick to stop burning.

It’s almost nostalgic, in a way. He’d forgotten how fucking bad something could feel. There’s really not a whole lot his acid-washed nerve endings can do to mute a pain like that.

The shockwave of pain blooms outward again and again, a little easier each time. It dials back to something bearable but doesn’t completely go away. He feels like he’s jabbing a thumb into a muscle-deep bruise.

‘Why?’ Joker wheezes. ‘Who raised you, you menace?’

‘Scream if you have to,’ Batman growls. ‘Get it all out.’

‘Mother of God. You’re lucky you’re so good-looking or I would walk.’

‘You wouldn’t. You’d hobble, maybe. But you wouldn’t walk.’

‘Right.’ Joker nods with determination, blowing his hair out of his eyes. ‘Right, now you’re gonna get it. Square up.’ Batman doesn’t and Joker snarls. ‘You square up right the fuck now or I’m telling every reporter in Gotham about how you rubbed your leg on my dick tonight.’

‘Darling,’ Batman smirks. ‘Aren’t you bending the truth a little?’

Whatever remained of Joker’s patience slips right through his fingers. He stalks forward, heels clacking on the wet brickwork.

‘Bend this,’ Joker seethes, and gives the Dark Knight exactly what he wants.

He throws a haymaker first. Batman’s forearm snaps up to block, grabbing his wrist, trying to get that arm out of commission. Joker goes for a knee kick and Batman counters again, smacking him on the in-step.

The tight grip around Joker’s wrist almost passes for Batman holding his hand. He wonders if the vigilante can feel his pulse slamming about in there with excitement— not fear, but excitement, because Joker’s not worried. Because he still has one hand free. Because he’s ambidextrous and hypermobile both.

Joker sends a razor-sharp card shooting up out of his sleeve, catching it between two fingers in his free hand. Batman’s attention zeroes in on it right before Joker brings it driving down for his eyes. It forces Batman to let go of one wrist to catch the other before the card can rake him blind.

Of course he doesn’t get all the way there. He never meant to. He just needed his right hand free. Now that it is, Joker uses it to grab the cape and wrap it down over Batman’s face. Then he digs into his inner coat pocket, reaching for his next trick. Batman yelps.

‘Did you just bite me?’

‘Did I?’ Joker laughs. ‘You tell me, big guy!’

The look on Batman’s face when he gets free from the cape and finds the chattering teeth clamped down on his hand is fucking priceless.

They clash and break apart again and again, Batman matching him like they choreographed this in advance. Joker springs and rolls and ricochets off the walls; Batman hits him hard enough to make his teeth ache whenever Joker doesn’t dodge in time.

They match each other perfectly. They always have. Joker’s slippery and acrobatic, Batman is unyielding and strong, and when they dance like this, Joker really believes they could go on forever.

But not tonight.

There’s somewhere else Joker needs to be. All good things come to an end, after all. He can’t exactly scour Arkham for corruption if he’s here all night wrapped around Batman.

His final cannister of Smylex gets Batman laughing and fumbling for his rebreather. Joker knocks it out of his hand, pinning it to the alley wall in a flurry of cards. Next, he springs up the Batmobile while the smoke is still thick. He launches from its roof to get more power in an elbow strike down on Batman’s shoulder, crashing on top of him.

Joker cages him down to the pavement with his legs. Batman’s too breathless to shove him off, even when Joker traces fondly over his jawline. The tense clench is long gone.

‘That’s better, isn’t it? Laughing for once.’

All Batman can do is wheeze in reply. Joker keeps petting around the sides of his face. When he reaches Batman’s shoulders, he’s annoyed to find them still hard as rocks.

‘You really need to loosen up, love. You know? Get a massage once in a while.’

‘C-can’t,’ Batman hacks out. ‘The scars, hah. They’d see and, ahaha, and—’

‘And figure out who you are,’ Joker finishes for him. ‘Right.’

The cogs are turning over. He can’t help but think Bats is coming at the problem backwards, though. He’s trying to find some stress relief as his day self, nervous that whoever helps him will find out. He should let someone help him while the cowl is on instead, someone he can trust not to look beneath.

Then again, maybe that’s the problem. His Bat has walls on walls on walls. Joker rarely gets a peek past them. It only makes him all the more determined to try.

‘Let me.’ Joker starts mapping the tight spots in all that dense muscle. ‘You can keep the mask on, love.’

It’s not like he can’t work through it. The part of the suit where the cowl meets the top of the armour is weaker than everywhere else in order to keep Batman’s shoulders mobile. Joker doubts any of the other rogues know about it. The back of the cape hides that secret away.

Batman hasn’t told him no. He’s almost beaten the Smylex, too, so it’s not as if he can’t catch the breath to deny him.

‘Don’t worry,’ Joker soothes. ‘I’m not going to do anything naughty, even with your little low blow earlier. I can never stay mad at you.’

‘If you try anything—’

‘Yes, yes. I’ll regret it, I’ll be feeling it for the next week, all that. But I’m really not going to do anything, Bats.’ Joker scoots back, shifting his weight down through his knees so he’s putting pressure on the ground rather than his darling’s chest. ‘I just want you to relax.’

Joker’s meant to be somewhere. But that can wait, can’t it? What’s the harm? His Bat is splayed out under him like a charcuterie board, still hissing the occasional snicker behind every other breath. He’s letting Joker touch him—not hit him or kick him but touch him, stroke him—and Joker’s heart goes arrhythmic with stupid giddy love.

Joker hums as he kneads the heels of his palms into those tough spots. When Batman doesn’t break either one of his wrists in the first minute, Joker carefully traces along the tendons, working his way to the knots keeping them tight.

He slides his thumbs into those sore places, slow but insistent. Batman growls in the back of his throat. Maybe it was a groan before the voice modulator got to it.

‘You’re okay,’ Joker coos. ‘Just try to relax, baby. I’m not like the others. I won’t hurt you.’

Joker can feel him trembling a little, the poor thing. He’s a big boy, though. He’ll tell Joker when it gets to be too much.

At least, that’s what Joker tells himself until Batman grabs him and flexes up like it’s nothing, swapping their positions. Suddenly, it’s Joker with his back to the ground. He lets out a soft oof at the impact.

Batman looms over him like a storm cloud. He’s pinning Joker the way he’s learned he has to if he wants to stop him contorting out with all of his flexible, foldable joints; with his knees caging Joker’s thighs and his elbows pressing into Joker’s shoulders. It makes Joker’s pulse flutter. Nobody understands his body like Batman does, not even the men he lets fuck him at the back of a bar.

Batman looks furious. His breathing has gone all rough.

‘Darling,’ Joker gasps. ‘You liked it that much?’

‘Enough.’

‘Oh, well. Thank you for letting me try, at least.’ Joker wriggles in place, scooting up the pavement to ease the pressure on his shoulders. Batman’s gauntlets are cool around his wrists. ‘I mean it. I know that mustn’t have been easy, trusting me like that.’

Batman just grunts, repositioning his grip on Joker’s wrists after letting him get comfortable. Joker melts. It’s something about how accommodating that is. It’s not fair. He’s so cute. Batman can barely get a word out he’s so stirred up, confused inside just like any other great big jock Joker zeroes in on at the club.

Joker is just so happy to be here with him.

I love you, he thinks, I missed you, I’m so glad you’re safe, and he can’t stop himself from leaning up to kiss Batman on the cheek.

It was supposed to be a peck, but his body doesn’t agree with that plan at all. He keeps it gentle as a whisper, the barest touch of his lips, but he holds the kiss for a long moment. He only pulls back when Batman gasps against his ear.

‘Sorry.’ Joker gives him an apologetic smile. ‘Think nothing of it. Just a little goodbye kiss, that’s all. Something to remember me by after you drop me off at Arkham.’

‘You let me win,’ Batman growls. ‘I could tell.’

‘I can’t win with you,’ Joker huffs, exasperated. ‘You’re either sad when you don’t catch me or grumpy when you do!’ He tries to free his hands. He can barely move an inch before Batman’s grasp turns tight as iron around his wrists. ‘Feel that? You caught me. Now clap on the cuffs and get your reward.’

‘You’re acting weird tonight.’

‘Me? No. Whatever could you mean?’

‘Weirder than normal,’ Batman amends. ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted to be in Arkham.’

For a moment, the whole world holds still. Joker feels his own body freeze like an ice carving. The cowl lenses buzz like mad, raking over that reaction.

‘No,’ Joker moans. ‘No no no no …’

‘Joker, what happened?’

‘Ugh! You know I hate lying to you!’

‘Then don’t. Tell me what’s going on.’

‘Yeah, right! Even if I did, it’s not as if you’d actually believe me.’

Batman lets him go. He draws himself to full height, a wall of black leather and muscle towering over Joker where he’s still flat on his back. He crosses his arms.

‘Try me,’ he growls.

God, his biceps. Even behind the Kevlar, they’re fucking huge. And look, hey, Harley would understand. Wouldn’t she? She’d have to. It’s not Joker’s fault. That unblinking stare would make anyone lose their nerve.

Sorry monkeyface, Joker thinks, resigning himself to what he’s about to do. Looks like we need a new plan.

‘Something’s happening in Arkham, Bats.’ Joker licks his lips as he picks himself up, starting to fret. ‘And no, I can’t tell you how I know. So don’t bother asking. But I think … I think there’s a doctor there abusing patients. Harvey Dent, in particular.’

The trouble with building his entire identity on pranks is how hard it becomes for anyone to take him seriously when he means it. It’s impossible to know what the Dark Knight is thinking about behind that stormy gaze. Joker just keeps talking, praying his honesty comes across.

‘I need more information, so I figured I’d get you to throw me in there like you’re always threatening to. I’d ask around, do some spying. That sort of thing. But oh, no, all of a sudden you don’t want to play along! The one thing I thought I could rely on! You know, you really don’t make things easy.’

‘Why do you care what happens to Harvey Dent?’

‘Are you kidding? The man’s a hero! You might catch the crooks, darling, but who do you think actually puts them away? Some people even think he’s you.’

Those lenses are making Joker nervous. He feels like Batman can read his mind at a glance, the same way he can read Joker’s vitals. It would be so embarrassing if he knew how Joker’s been holed up in his room all weekend, hiding from anything that could tell him the last thing he ever wants to hear.

And it’s not who Batman is. Joker can’t wait for that. He knows deep down that they’re working their way toward the night the cowl will come off. No, the thing he never wants to hear is that Batman is gone—that he won’t come out anymore—that Joker won’t run into him in the alleys or on the rooftops. Joker can barely stand thinking about it.

‘I was worried, for a moment,’ he confesses. ‘Until you showed up. Thank God.’

He was so relieved when Batman appeared at the train station. He’s barely been holding himself together since finding out that whatever’s happening to Dent is threatening Harley. If Batman hadn’t turned up—if he really had gone AWOL and this scheme had him wrapped in it, too—Joker’s pretty sure he would have thrown caution to the wind and stormed Arkham by sunrise.

He might have even broken their rule.

That dark thought makes Joker want to whimper. He paves it over with his trademark mirth.

‘Even if we put those very good reasons aside, Bats. Do you really think I want to do what I do out here if one fuck-up could put me under the knife of Dr. Moreau?’ Joker shakes his head. ‘No, thank you. I’m doing this for my own peace of mind, too. Not just for Gotham’s favourite lawyer.’

There’s one more reason, though, and one that’s more important than any of that.

That creepy shithole, Joker wants to tell him, has its claws in the only family I’ve ever had. I can’t live with myself if there’s even a chance that she’s in danger there.

‘So you learn Arkham could be dangerous,’ Batman says, unimpressed. ‘And your first impulse is to run right at it without any backup.’

‘Oh, sure. Because there’s tonnes of heroes chomping at the bit to help me. Be serious, darling. Jokes are meant to be my thing.’

‘I would.’

‘You’ve lost me. Would what?’

‘Help you.’

Joker bites his tongue by accident. He doesn’t feel the sting but he can tell by the sudden sour taste of pennies.

Batman’s serious. He always is. Even when he’s teasing him or when Joker falls for a feint and ends up in a headlock or a nelson grip or getting his fucking cock kicked— Batman doesn’t lie. Batman doesn’t deceive Joker or lure him into traps.

It’s making Joker’s eyes sting. His skin feels too tight to hold in the lightning inside of him. His mouth has gone dry, his palms have turned all clammy.

‘You—’ Joker gestures between them— ‘want to team up with me?’

Batman hits a sequence on his gauntlet and the Batmobile doors spring open with a chirp.

‘Get in before I change my mind.’

Joker pinches his wrist to see if he’s dreaming. Even from that, he can feel how his pulse is going ballistic in there, pushing his poisonous blood around in double-time.

‘We’re going to Arkham?’

‘Eventually,’ Batman growls. ‘First, I’m putting a wire on you. I’ll watch while you’re in there. Give you intel when I can.’

It’s hard to even breathe. Joker’s spine is turning to jelly at the idea of Batman monitoring him.

‘Wait,’ Joker squeaks. ‘I need to make a call first.’

Batman grunts, climbing into his car.

‘Make it quick.’

It’s not until the driver’s door seals shut that Joker can finally move again, the hungry thing inside him handing back at least some control over his body. He practically trips over himself as he moves into the street. His hands tremble as he fumbles to Harley’s phone contact. It takes him three times to hit the call button.

‘Hey, J.’

‘Harley!’ Joker whispers. ‘Oh, Harley. Something wonderful is happening.’ He goes to bite his lip, barely remembering to stop before his teeth can break the skin. ‘Batman’s teaming up with me! And he let me give him a massage after he kicked me in the balls!’

‘I fucking told you,’ Harley shrieks. He fights himself not to mirror her. ‘He’s gay for you!’

Joker hugs his phone, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

‘Listen.’ He works hard to lower his voice. It’s taking everything in him to stay focussed. ‘No, okay, I called for a reason. This part’s important.’

‘More important than Batman hanging offa your—?’

‘Stop! My heart can’t take it! Harls, I’m serious. Listen. Bats said he’s going to put a wire on me. So you have to steer clear of me while I’m in Arkham or he’s going to figure out your secret identity. You know how nosy he can be.’

‘No.’

‘Monkeyfa—’

‘I said no! Sugar, what if things get bad? What if you’re in trouble?’

If I’m in trouble, then we’re probably fucked, he wants to say. Because honestly? Even without Bats, this feels like a problem only Joker has a chance to solve.

He can’t be drugged or sedated like they did to Dent. He knows enough of their therapy strategies by now that he can hold his own against them. He’s long-since memorised Arkham’s layout, too, knowing the next time he breaks out will be harder without Harley’s help.

‘If I hit my limit,’ Joker says slowly, ‘I’ll come clean and ask Batman to page you.’

‘You promise?’

He can throw her this bone, can’t he? If everything goes according to plan, it should never come up.

‘I promise, bestie.’

‘Fine. Then I’ll keep my distance.’ Harley’s grouchy tone disappears when she snickers. ‘I’ll let ya have your alone time with tall, dark and brooding. But I swear to God, I’m getting involved the second I think you’re outta ya depth.’

‘I’d expect nothing less,’ Joker grins. ‘I gotta go, girl buddy. Batman’s waiting!’

He disconnects the call but he’s not quick enough to miss her final delighted shriek.

‘Use protection!’

Chapter Text

Joker winces as he climbs into the Batmobile’s passenger seat. He can still feel the sting between his legs from that kick earlier. He tries a few different ways of angling himself to avoid it. Ultimately, he pulls one knee to his chest like he’s seen Harley do before, shifting his hips so his weight presses on his tailbone rather than his goddamn nuts.

‘Seatbelt,’ Batman growls, apparently custom-built to torment him.

Joker scowls at him. The Dark Knight just waits, pointedly keeping the Batmobile in park until Joker grumbles that his etiquette needs work and drops his leg to buckle up. He twists to make the ache less all-encompassing. Still, it fucking hurts.

‘New rule,’ Joker decides, breaking the silence. ‘Are you listening?’

Batman flips a handful of switches to fire up the engine. The Batmobile rumbles to life around them like a purring panther, lighting up along the dashboard.

Batman’s answer comes cool and steady as he steers out of the alley, merging onto Victoria Street.

‘I’m all ears.’

‘Good,’ Joker snaps. ‘Because I only want to have to say this once. No. More. Cock shots. You got that?’

Batman huffs out a laugh. He wouldn’t be laughing if it was his dick aching all the way through, that’s for sure. Joker readjusts in his seat with a wince. If he wasn’t already sterile from the vat, then he sure is now.

‘I’m serious.’ Joker crosses his arms. ‘Everything below the thighs? Go for it, it’s free real estate. But no more hits to the groin.’

‘No more hits to the groin,’ Batman agrees. ‘Anything else?’

Joker rakes his mind as they pass the station. Its yellow spotlights catch the Gothic architecture like a museum sculpture. The whole street is like that, picture perfect with stripes of maintained gardens around the edges of the road. Glowing streetlights and shopfronts banish the gloom of the night. He can smell donuts through the air-con.

‘I’ve got one,’ Batman offers. ‘If you’re okay with it.’

Ha. If he’s okay with it. As if Joker doesn’t have to put manual effort into sounding unaffected. Otherwise, he’d give away the truth. Negotiating boundaries with Batman makes him feel like he’s been struck by a tuning fork. It makes him all shivery inside, humming from his stomach then down lower.

‘More than okay,’ Joker rasps.

‘You’ve been doing it already. It would take a weight off my mind if we made it formal, though.’

‘Formal?’ Joker echoes, no idea what his Bat is alluding to.

‘If we made it a rule,’ Batman explains. ‘However you want to call it. I was thinking we could add no lasting damage.’ He hesitates as they come to a red light, waiting in the turning lane to East Eighteenth. ‘It’s self-explanatory, I hope.’

Joker frowns. Something about it sticks in his mind like gum in a machine.

He likes rules. They make things easier. They make the world make sense. This one is very much in-character for Batman. He’s Gotham’s anonymous protector, the silent vigilante intervening in all those nocturnal wrongdoings, a superhero who looks and moves like a predator but will go to any length to keep Gotham’s death toll down.

The new rule is so in-character that it makes his many actions to the contrary seem stark by comparison.

‘I’m getting some mixed signals here,’ Joker says carefully. ‘Your opener tonight was lobbing one of your batarangs so hard at my head it got stuck in the platform wall.’

‘That’s because I knew you would dodge.’

‘And I knew you would catch me.’

Joker doesn’t bring up that night on Wayne Tower often. The memory still makes him listless with guilt. If the sudden tightening of Batman’s jaw is anything to go by, Joker would hazard a guess that the pain is a two-way thing.

It stalls the conversation. He thought it might. That wasn’t his intention, though. Someone else might wield that memory like a weapon, a low blow to gain the upper hand in an argument. But this isn’t an argument.

Joker just wants to understand.

‘Do you see what I’m saying?’ Joker looks across at him. ‘It’s the same thing, darling.’

Batman stays pensive, tapping his first and second fingers on the wheel. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. They’re crossing the Clinton Bridge. It puts them on the freeway circling out over the Atlantic, wrapping around Gotham’s perimeter.

The closer they get to the Arkham exit, the more anxious Joker feels. He’s so worried that Bats will renege on his offer to wire him up. Maybe Joker was too annoying or too forward and Bats has decided he would rather wash his hands of him now than forge any deeper into their team-up. Then the Batmobile zips right past it, ignoring the exit altogether, and the cold fingers squeezing Joker’s heart like a stress ball finally relax their grip.

‘I hadn’t thought about it like that,’ the vigilante says slowly. ‘I can’t imagine you ever not being fast enough to get out of the way.’

‘Mhm.’ It’s exactly how Joker felt that night. ‘You took the words right out of my mouth, love. But let’s pretend for a moment that I hadn’t heard your cape. Maybe one of those adorable little dumplings had picked that moment to start screaming and I’d been distracted.’

Joker themes himself after carnivals. He’s taught himself so many circus tricks by now, sinking hours into performance and acrobatics and balancing acts. But the role he’s never been any good at is the fortune teller. The mind-reader. Then again, he doesn’t exactly need to read minds to know that neither of them like the implication, nor how it rings true.

Batman could have done irreparable damage to him tonight.

Joker doesn’t think the blow would have killed him. Those batarangs embed themselves into skin and muscle just fine, but they don’t have the ballistic power of bullets. The broader midsection of the Bat symbol would have stopped it from burying any deeper than a couple of inches.

Probably, Joker rationalises, not deep enough to reach the important part of my brain.

But he definitely would have lost an eye.

‘I don’t want you torturing yourself about it,’ Joker adds. ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

And it doesn’t. Joker would have made it work. He’d have built himself a prosthetic with a bright amethyst iris in the middle so that he’d look heterochromatic—one green eye, one purple—and he’d have shaped the pupil like the Bat symbol, too. That way, everyone would know at a glance that Batman didn’t take his eye. Joker gave it willingly.

‘But,’ Joker says quietly. ‘I think it should bother you.’

‘I hear you,’ Batman grunts. ‘You’re right.’

Joker’s made his point. Even if it weren’t for that pained little admission of guilt, he can tell by the Dark Knight’s body language. He doesn’t need to rub it in for it to count. But then Batman draws in a breath.

‘I’m s—’

‘Nope!’ Joker shouts, silencing him. ‘Uh-uh, you stop that right now. You’ve done enough apologising for the night. Honestly, for the month. And there’s really nothing for you to be sorry for. I brought it up because of a logical inconsistency, not because it matters to me one bit if you wanna try and maim me—’

‘But I don’t.’

It’s the sharpest thing Batman has said to him tonight. Suddenly, Joker feels like they’re having two very different conversations. What emotion is that? It’s not anger. It’s a little pleading, but not desperate. And it’s firm, convinced, like Bats is so sure that they’ll find their way through this— like he would move mountains to make sure of it.

‘That’s why I’m sorry. I got carried away. I let it get to the point where I made you think that’s what I want.’

Joker understands now. Batman had completely written off the possibility that Joker could falter, and he did that because he cares about Joker, not in spite of it. It’s such a compliment.

Batman sees them as equals.

Joker reaches for his hand on the steering wheel. He squeezes it once over the black gauntlet before he pulls away again.

‘I forgive you, darling.’ Joker keeps his voice soft. ‘Of course I forgive you.’

Batman’s next breath sounds like a sigh of relief. Joker decides on a joke.

‘That brings us up to four. No deaths, no guns, no groin shots and no lasting damage. Any more and I’ll have to start writing them down!’ Joker nudges Batman with his elbow. ‘If we hit ten, I’ll carve them into a stone slab.’

There’s nothing in this world that Joker likes more than Batman’s wry smile.

‘Thank you,’ the vigilante says. ‘For listening. For being so open.’

‘I’m very open,’ Joker croons shamelessly. ‘Wide open for you, Bats.’

Batman’s head tips a little to one side.

‘Are you, now?’

It takes Joker by surprise. That’s different. That’s not the usual shutting him down or brushing him off— or worse, ignoring him altogether.

Is Batman flirting with him? It sure sounded like it. He volleyed it back to him with that are you now— unless he somehow missed Joker’s innuendo and thought he meant, like, open up emotionally or something.

Did he?

‘You don’t believe me,’ Joker teases. ‘Do you need me to prove it?’

‘Maybe I do.’ Batman hums an interested note. ‘Are we talking proof like pictures, or a private demonstration?’

He is! Batman’s flirting with him! And that means—

Fuck, that means—

Joker catches the way his acid eyes spark in the side mirror. He has to clench his hands where they’re resting on his knees.

If he wasn’t picturing it before, he sure is now.

He’s imagining himself on his knees for Batman, opening himself one finger at a time so the Dark Knight could fuck right into him without any resistance, God. Batman would take him by the ankles and fold him in half, wouldn’t he? He’d press down close until they’re chest-to-chest, trap Joker under all that muscle and heat and give it to him hard and nasty. He’d fuck Joker like he wants to pound the mischief right out of him, fuck him like they’re fighting. That’s so fucking hot—

—and it’s so fucking sad.

In every last one of his fantasies, Joker can’t imagine Batman ever kissing him.

In his head, it’s greyed out like a locked choice in a video game. It’s not even an option. Sex can be a split-second decision in the heat of the moment. Sex can be competitive and adrenaline-fuelled, and it’s not so hard to imagine one of their fights ending in something so horizontal.

Joker looks out of the window to hide the pain. The kind of love he has for Batman doesn’t just come and go. It’s a forever thing for Joker, and it’s the Rubicon between them. It’s the expanse they’re never going to cross.

It hurts, having all of that dizzy romantic love for someone who doesn’t love him back.

Sometimes he wonders if Harley’s right. Maybe Joker should shut it down, give it up because it’s just not going to happen. But he can’t. That’s the thing. Even though it hurts—even when he’s so forlorn from it that he starts to remember what life was like before the vat—Joker would rather have that heartache than have nothing at all.

He’d rather be close to Batman and not be able to touch him, than be far away and still not be able to touch him.

‘It’s a long road to Arkham.’ Joker pushes through the pang of loneliness. ‘Find a nice place to park and I’ll do all the demonstrating you like. I’ll recharge your batteries a little, darling. I’m better than any cup of coffee.’

‘What you are,’ Batman says slowly, ‘is a distraction. We really should be figuring out a plan for Arkham. Not for … opening you up.’

Ghost fingers trail up and down Joker’s spinal column. He shivers, glad to follow the subject change out of dangerous territory.

‘We need a plan,’ Batman growls. Joker can’t help but mouth that first word back to himself with a sad smile.

‘What’s to plan? This feels simple enough to me. I’m dangerous, plus mentally ill, equals Arkham.’

‘Except you’re not dangerous,’ Batman counters. ‘If you were dangerous, they’d keep you under strict observation. Maybe even put you in a straightjacket. It’s a little hard to snoop around in a straightjacket.’

‘Hm.’ Joker sees where he’s going with this. ‘You’re saying I should play nice.’

‘You do it for me, don’t you? So do it for them.’

‘The difference is I want to do it for you. I like doing it for you.’

‘Even when you’re pretending?’

‘That’s just it. I’m not pretending.’

Joker doesn’t pretend. He has his secrets, sure. He loves performing as much as any clown. He can do impressions and impersonations and he can act, as convincing and dramatic as any Oscar-winning leading lady. But he never pretends.

There’s a distinction to him. He’s no good at hiding his feelings. He can never stop them from ripping across his face, giving away so much of his moods that Harley can read him like a book. If he’s happy, he shows it off. If he’s angry, he makes no attempt to hide it. How does he have to word that for Batman to understand? Batman wears a costume, but Joker’s face paint can’t be washed away.

‘When I choose to do something,’ Joker says. ‘That makes it real. It’s the only thing that makes it real.’

Batman glances over, a quick flicker of the lenses before he sets his gaze back on the empty freeway. He mulls over Joker’s admission.

‘Can you choose to do this?’

‘Yes,’ Joker answers. ‘All you had to do was ask, love.’

They’re far along the Ring Road now, driving toward the mainland. Joker struggles to match it with the route he remembers from last time in the tunnel. He gives up on trying before long. Knowing his luck, Batman’s lair is probably under the ocean or something, somewhere he’ll never be able to track it down.

They’re out from under the worst of the smog. Sparse beams of silver moonlight glint on the dark water far below, making it glimmer and shine. It’s pushing 1:00 in the morning now, has to be, and this is the way across to the empty banks beside the Palisades where next to nobody goes. It makes it feel as if it’s just the two of them in all the world.

‘I’m going to tell them I want to know if you can be trusted,’ Batman rumbles. Joker wonders if he defaults to passive voice on purpose. ‘If we could be allies.’

‘And they’ll give me a little more freedom because Batman himself is putting his faith in me.’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘It’s a good plan. I like it.’

‘Thanks,’ Batman grunts. ‘Hold that thought.’

He slows the Batmobile to a stop. Not far ahead of them is a broken-down black sedan. Beside it is a red SUV with its engine still running.

Batman’s cowl lenses whir and magnify. Joker’s stuck squinting. The fact he can make out anything at all is a testament to the acid in his eyes, everything filtering green in the dark like a night-vision camera.

He makes out figures. The good Samaritans didn’t realise they were falling for an ambush, Joker gathers. There are two carjackers in balaclavas, one hauling a woman out of the SUV. In the passenger seat is a man—her husband, at a guess—and Joker’s judging him already. He’s not doing anything to help her.

But then Joker realises why. There’s a dog in their backseat, a big, smiling golden retriever.

And the second carjacker has a gun trained right on her snout.

‘Oh,’ Joker breathes. ‘Oh, that’s horrible.’ He reaches over and touches Batman on the arm. ‘Be careful, darling. He’ll shoot the dog.’

‘He won’t,’ Batman grunts. ‘Gun’s made of plastic.’

The Dark Knight hits the high beams, washing the scene with white spotlights. Joker shields his eyes. It’s smart. It will mean they won’t recognise the Batmobile and maybe Bats can salvage the element of surprise.

‘Be right back,’ he growls, climbing out of the car.

Batman slips over to the bridge railing, staying hidden while the carjackers squint into the bright lights. It’s a clear night and there are no other cars. Joker cracks the window to listen in.

‘H-hey,’ one carjacker shouts, voice carrying. ‘Hey, fuck off, man! This ain’t about you, okay? So just turn the fuck around!’

Joker tracks Batman with his eyes. He’s inching his way along the railing without fear of the churning Atlantic Ocean hundreds of feet below. It’s a good a chance as any for a bit, so Joker sticks his head out of the window and cups his hands around his mouth.

‘Hey guys!’ Joker calls out. ‘Do you do birthday parties?’

The one threatening the dog wavers.

‘Birthday parties,’ a woman’s voice shouts back at him. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

Joker’s voice turns bouncy with glee.

‘Because I’ve seen some pretty bad thieves in my time. But man, I think you two would really take the cake!’

They don’t laugh but Joker sure does. He chortles like a hyena until he thinks of a better one.

‘Hey! Hey guys! Guys! It’s okay, I’m one of you! I almost got caught robbing a toy store this morning. They got me with a bag filled with board games! But hey, you can’t win them all. And it was a Risk I was willing to take!’

‘Dan,’ the woman hisses to the other carjacker. ‘Does that sound like the Joker to you?’

That’s the precise moment Batman grabs Dan from behind.

He breaks the man’s grip over the hostage, bending his elbow back until he yelps, wrenching him away from her. The other carjacker swears. It breaks her concentration on the dog.

‘Get away from him!’

Batman drags the man’s weight around like it’s nothing. Then one of the back doors on the sedan cracks open. A third carjacker emerges from it, yanking an AirPod out of his left ear. He’s huge, shirtless and exploding with muscle. There’s barely an inch of him that isn’t covered in scratchy prison tattoos.

‘What’s all this fucking yelling for?’

The new man stops dead when he takes in the scene. The dog is barking as the hostages take cover in their car. Dan is in a melee now with Batman, his arms raised defensively as he tries to anticipate the vigilante’s next move.

‘Fucking help me, Al!’ Dan shouts.

It kickstarts Al into action. He grabs a weapon from the backseat, an axe, looking like he grabbed it straight out of a fire engine. Batman’s growl is bone-chilling.

‘Drop it.’

‘Fuck no!’ The woman brandishes her fake handgun at him. ‘We got guns, you big bitch.’

‘Fuck outta here.’ Al brandishes the axe. ‘Or I’ll put this through your forehead, Batman.’

Batman snarls. Dan takes that moment to swing for him. Bad idea. The vigilante strikes his forearm away so hard, Joker hears the bone crack. Dan’s answering howl warbles as Batman throws him to the ground, stalking forward to meet the axeman’s advance. He’s already raising his grappling gun.

Joker might as well make the most of the time to himself. He fishes out a tube of bombshell red, meaning to touch up his lipstick. But when he flicks down the passenger visor, there’s no mirror. Instead, there’s a handful of buttons, two knobs and a tiny screen. Above the panel is a fading label.

RADIO CONTROLS

‘Hello,’ Joker whispers, lipstick falling out of his hand.

It takes him two tries to find a channel that isn’t in the middle of an ad break.

—rgained for yet? Oh don’t mind me, I’m watching you two from the closet, wishing to be the fric—

Joker shakes his head. Something tells him it would be a touch too alternative for his Dark Knight. He flips channels again—ads, then more ads, before—

—nt the distance now I’m back on my feet, just a man and his will to survive …

It’s perfect. Joker cackles as he rolls down the windows, dialling the volume as high as it will go. He covers his ears right before the chorus hits.

Rising up to the challenge of our rival, and the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night …

Sometimes Joker forgets that for every time like Ivy getting away, there’s a dozen more times like this. Batman’s knocked out the first two carjackers already. All he’s got left is the big guy, Al, who’s noticeably unsteady on his feet now. He’s bleeding from the nose and a gash on his temple but he’s still got a white-knuckled grip around that axe.

He roars and comes at Batman again, swinging the axe. The vigilante ducks it with ease. His fist rockets upward, crashing into Al’s jaw—again, and again—rattling his skull so hard that it sends the behemoth staggering back. It’s nothing at all for Batman to wrench the axe from his hands. He cracks the handle in half over his knee, hurling the pieces to the road.

Watching the action makes Joker feel small, but in a good way. It’s that way where there’s so much feeling trying to explode out of him that it shoves that loneliness right out of his mind. Lately, he’s bursting at the seams with emotion—like now, when he’s warring between excitement and awe—when he’s giddy, helpless and weak as he watches his darling go to work.

In the second’s break before Al can collect himself from the barrage, Bats looks right at the Batmobile, right into the glaring lights. Right at Joker. Then he throws up his hands, as if he’s saying, Are you serious right now?

Joker just sees a champion.

Rising up straight to the top, had the guts, got the glory …

He’s so dreamy. He’s one of a kind, so genuine, so unwavering. Superman can fuck off. And you can forget about The Flash. In Joker’s world, it’s Batman all day. Those other heroes? All they do is save people, make them feel safe and protected. And that’s fine, but that’s not Batman. Batman is something better, growling like a monster, punching like a God.

Only wimps are scared of Superman. The man is more of a puppy dog than the golden retriever slobbering on the SUV’s back window.

But everyone with two brain cells to rub together knows to be afraid of the Bat.

When Batman drops into the scene with fists clenched and vengeance in his stare, he’s not saying I’m here to save you to the people in danger. He’s telling the villains, Now you’re fucked, because now you have to deal with me.

There’s something so selfless about it. It wouldn’t be fair to write him off as motivated by anger or the thrill of the fight. There’s something so special about him, this ordinary man who has the same passion and desire to protect as any other hero, but who doesn’t seem to know how to show it unless he puts on the mask and does it through violence.

Joker’s never going to stop wondering what made him this way.

God. God. He wishes he knew everything about him, down to the very last detail. Maybe then he would finally be satisfied. Maybe it would finally be enough to feed the great white shark inside him, the coiling affectionate monster that adores his darling all the way through.

Life used to feel like walking on glass. Loneliness was eating Joker alive. No, it had eaten him alive. He was an empty shell living in a holding pattern, waiting for the end. Too detached to hasten it along but too helpless to want to get better.

And then he fell. He fell hard and he fell fast, and every time he looks at Batman, he’s still falling.

The Dark Knight finishes his fight with a solid kick to the axeman’s jaw, sending the musclebound carjacker into unconsciousness. The first thing he does after is nudge him into the recovery position. Then Batman gets his hands up behind his head, broadening out his lung capacity like sprinters do after a marathon.

After a moment, he recovers enough to gesture for Joker to turn down the music. Joker obliges, rolling the volume down so Batman can call the cops and check in on the shaken couple. He gives a dreamy sigh.

It might not be a love story in the traditional sense. It might always be bittersweet with pining. Joker could be happy with even this, though. He likes it right here, after all. Here, in the passenger seat on Batman’s other side, keeping him laughing. Keeping the road from getting dull.

Joker undoes his seatbelt so he can stick his top half out through the window.

‘Bats!’ he calls out, waving to him. ‘Ask if I can pat their dog!’

Chapter Text

Letting that dog slobber all over his face seems to have mellowed Joker right out. He doesn’t even crack a joke when Bruce asks him to wait outside the Batcave for a moment. He just settles comfortably on the hood of the Batmobile and starts picking dog hair from his coattails.

Really, Bruce just needs a chance to throw a sheet over his collection of Joker paraphernalia.

He let Joker come pat the dog in the end. He wasn’t going to, at first. But as soon as the couple he’d rescued heard Joker’s unmistakable voice, they asked outright if Batman had him in the car. And since the clown had helped by keeping the carjackers distracted, Bruce couldn’t think of a good enough reason to say no.

In hindsight, he’s glad he couldn’t. It’s a memory that makes gold seem worthless. He’s going to be seeing it behind his eyes for a long time to come; Joker hunkering down, laughing and baby-talking the massive dog trying to knock him to the asphalt.

Once he’s hidden his Joker shrine, Bruce brings the man himself into the cave. Joker’s reaction is oddly muted. Bruce was expecting excitement but what he gets looks more like familiarity. It’s like Joker already knew what he’d find on the other side of the bulkhead doors.

Acid green eyes linger on the covered shrine when they pass it on the walkway. Something about the smirk Joker gives him sends shivers down Bruce’s spine. There’s no way he could know what’s under there.

Is there?

No. There’s no way, and thank God for that. If Joker found out Batman has the biggest collection of Joker memorabilia in all of Gotham, the teasing would be merciless.

At least he’s not the only one, Bruce supposes. Though it still wigs him out that Joker has fans. His cult following was just a niche internet community, at first. By this point, though, it’s blooming into something far more public.

People wear purple and green flowers on their lapels to show they support him. There’s even a new segment in Gazette programming dedicated to Joker updates. It’s always a coin flip on whether they change their mind when they cross paths with him personally. One look at his teeth and eyes up close can have even Joker’s most loyal supporters re-thinking their faith in him.

Still, if the GCPD ever seriously did put Joker away, Bruce imagines the public outcry would be fierce. He thinks again of Joker cuddling the dog. Maybe that’s him: Gotham’s golden retriever. A shining coat and a charming smile; silly, affectionate and great with kids; devoted and loyal, an energetic gundog always eager to please.

Bruce recedes the barbs before he takes off the gauntlets. He washes his hands carefully in the medical sink before circling back to where Joker’s perched by the supercomputer. He starts pulling on a set of disposable gloves, Joker watching his every move.

‘You’re scared of my saliva now?’

‘Other way around,’ Bruce grunts. ‘I don’t want to get any bacteria from the alley into your eyes or mouth.’

Joker blinks on repeat like he hadn’t thought of that. Bruce can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. Whatever life Joker had before they met, he’s had enough context clues by now to know that it couldn’t have been a very kind one.

He’s about to pull on the other glove when Joker touches him on the elbow to stop him. Without asking for permission, he takes Bruce’s bare hand between his and turns it over. He starts studying it like he’s going to read Bruce’s palm.

‘Joker.’ Bruce fights the urge to pull away. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking.’

Joker gets his hands on Batman any chance he gets. He loses his gloves the instant Bruce is within touching range, laser-guided for his shoulders. But those stolen touches have always been through the suit. Bruce can only think of one or two times when he’s let Joker get away with touching bare skin, usually his jaw.

He’s never once given Joker the chance to touch his hands.

It’s a two-way street. Bruce isn’t sure he’s ever taken the time to notice that Joker’s hands are so interesting. His fingertips are soft, but his palms are rough and scratched. They’re so white that they’re almost see-through, the same colour as powder on a ski trail, and his fingers are a touch too long to look normal. The neat little nails are painted nuclear green. That sharp colour makes his veins stand out all the more.

‘You have nice hands,’ Joker says softly, taking the words right out of his mouth. ‘It’s a shame they’re always hidden away.’

He traces a nail over Bruce’s knuckles and Bruce swallows, fighting to hold still. Rationally, he knows that every imperfection is a risk to his anonymity: the single freckle on his wrist, another on the back of his index finger; the old scars calloused across his knuckles.

But rationality is one thing and attraction is another. Joker’s hands on his feel nice. Really nice, actually. Joker’s touching him, probably collecting as much information as he can while Bruce is too dumbstruck to pull away. He’s being so gentle. He’s not pulling or pushing.

He could stop being nice, though. He could push.

If he wanted to.

Joker could push him around a little.

The thought puts a lump in Bruce’s throat. He wants more. He wants Joker’s hands to run up his arms and twist into his hair. He wants those nails to scratch down his back while he presses Joker down into silk sheets. He forces himself to take his hand back, snapping on the other glove.

It’s not the first time Joker’s made him feel so overexposed.

He wires Joker with high-tech undetectable surveillance equipment. They’re Lucius’s latest prototypes, and the set needs field-testing anyway. This is as good an opportunity as they’re likely to get. Bruce starts with the long-lasting inner-ear communicator. It rests right against the drum, transmitting through indetectable vibration rather than actual soundwaves.

‘Brace yourself,’ Bruce warns from the computer. Joker stops kicking his legs to listen as Bruce mouths into the microphone. ‘Can you hear me?’

The clown’s eyes go wide as saucers.

The next thing Bruce does is add the camera contact lenses. He opens up their case, running the command into the supercomputer to sync them into his communications network. A moment later, a livestream appears on-screen. It shows Bruce from the lenses’ point of view.

‘These are smaller than normal contacts,’ Bruce explains, catching one on a gloved fingertip. ‘I’m going to hide them on top of your pupils where the doctors won’t see.’

Joker tips his head without a word. Bruce repositions the lens, stepping in close between Joker’s spread legs.

When he studies Joker’s eyes, he tells himself it’s because he needs to get the angle right. It has nothing to do with how they border on uncanny. They’re a summer grass green but it’s buried by the thin sheen of liquid inside them. It’s not on his eyes like tears, but inside his irises themselves. Not to mention that his lashes are so goddamn pretty it makes Bruce forget his own birthdate.

Joker opens his eyes wider, trying to be helpful. It snaps Bruce out of it. He notes distantly how Joker doesn’t move a muscle the entire time Bruce slips the lenses into place.

‘Try not to roll your eyes if you can avoid it,’ he cautions, hot under the collar. ‘But if they do get unstuck, I can talk you through how to reposition them.’

‘You’re amazing.’ Joker blinks three times in a row before looking up at Bruce like he hung the moon. ‘You thought of everything.’

‘There’s one more thing,’ Bruce grunts. ‘It goes in your mouth.’

‘Now I’m really excited.’

‘I’m serious.’ Bruce softens his voice as much as he can through the modulator, lowering his hands. ‘I want to rig a vibration microphone to the roof of your mouth. It would mean I can hear everything. Hear you. I need to know if anything goes wrong, Joker.’ He hesitates, feeling bad about this part. ‘But it’s going to hurt.’

The microphone is subdermal. It’s designed to be implanted directly under the skin like a body piercing. Just seven millimetres long, the top sits under the surface layer of the skin where it can be fished out later. There’s only one way to get it in.

Joker just laughs when Bruce takes out the piercing kit.

‘Can you do my ears, too?’

‘Be serious.’

‘Never. I’m fine with this, Bats. Go right ahead.’ Joker’s broad smile shrinks until it’s gone altogether. He looks up at him with open worry. ‘Please be careful. My teeth are very sharp and I don’t want you to get hurt.’

It takes Bruce aback. Joker really isn’t like any of the other rogues. He wouldn’t let any of them into the Batcave while conscious, that’s for sure. But he gets the weirdest sense of déjà vu seeing Joker here. It’s almost like they’ve been here before.

‘I’ll be careful,’ Bruce promises. ‘Just hold still.’

Joker opens his mouth like he’s getting a check-up. It’s almost a yawn, with his hypermobile jaw. It’s a good thing. Joker needs the extra room in his mouth for all those shark teeth.

It casts a spell over Bruce. Joker’s teeth are as sharp as his razor cards. It’s clear he takes good care of them: the enamel’s strong and there’s no built-up plaque. Joker’s molars are flat right at the back. Bruce struggles to make that observation clinical.

Don’t think about it, he tells himself. This isn’t the time or the place. Don’t think about how wet his mouth is or how sharp his teeth are. Definitely don’t think about how risky sex with him would be.

It’s a losing battle.

The truth is, Bruce has been fighting that heady feeling from the moment Joker touched his neck in the alley tonight and called him baby. He’s never been so glad he adjusted the armour plating on the suit. He did it months ago, after Ivy’s pheromones had him mortifying himself, rutting on Joker’s thigh like an animal. And here’s the thing about that, the thing Bruce has known all along and prays to God Joker never finds out.

Ivy’s pheromones wouldn’t have done shit if there wasn’t a latent spark of desire already there, burning in Bruce like a pilot light. It’s there every minute of every day, just waiting for the gas to kick in and make it boom.

He’s not going to act on it. Because it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just that Joker is objectively attractive, that’s all. And whenever Bruce is in the best position to notice that, he doesn’t have a hope in hell of fending it back off. It always happens when the air between them is charged with adrenaline from fighting, running and knocking each other down. That’s all it is—arousal faded into desire—bolstered higher again by Joker being so easy on the eyes.

It doesn’t help that he’s holding his mouth open for Bruce so obediently. God. His hands rest tentatively at the sides of Bruce’s thighs, his green eyelashes fluttering with nerves. Fucking hell.

Bruce spikes the microphone in through the roof of Joker’s mouth. Joker doesn’t even flinch. He just hums, catching the few drops of his blood with his tongue; catching Bruce’s finger a little, too. Desire clenches its fist around his stomach.

If only the latex wasn’t in the way—

Focus, Bruce orders himself. Harv’s safety is on the line. You’re supposed to be doing something to help him, not standing around daydreaming about Joker’s mouth.

Harv. Bruce first met him at summer camp when they were kids. They didn’t reconnect until they both went to Yale, swapping dorms to live together once they realised the memory they had in common. A part of Bruce feels guilty for even looking at Joker when Harv should be at the front of his mind.

He owes the revelation that he’s attracted to men as well as women entirely to Harv. Nothing ever came of Bruce’s crush on him, but it didn’t need to. Bruce truly believes that he would never have got over all the shit he’d internalised if it wasn’t for the closeness the two of them shared in their twenties.

He keeps those memories at the front of his mind, clutching them like a crucifix as he finishes wiring Joker. That strategy works right until it doesn’t. Eventually, it’s because of Harv that he ends up brooding over Joker again, right back at square one.

It seemed almost funny after his talk with Alfred in the kitchen. Bruce can throw himself at bombs and grapple across the city without so much as a flinch, but the thought of sitting opposite Harv in the Arkham visitor’s lounge makes his mouth dry with dread. But Bruce was out of options, and he was ready to give in. He’d resigned himself to the fact that he’d have to face Harvey without the mask—

—when Joker of all people waltzed right in with a better option.

And suddenly, Bruce has a plan—a good plan—and a co-conspirator to help him pull it off. Suddenly, Joker is sitting opposite him in the Batmobile, wearing an undetectable wire and grinning like they’re going on a road trip. Suddenly, this is turning into a problem that maybe Bruce can solve as Batman after all.

If this works, if Joker can peel back Arkham’s layers from the inside, then Alfred is wrong. And if Alfred’s wrong, Bruce can put off having to face Harv as Bruce Wayne, the man who loved him and let him down, just that little while longer.

He’s about to gun the engine when he makes up his mind. He needs this plan to work. Nobody will question it when Joker drops off the radar. He does it all the time. Superfans might be out for blood, but that’s the worst fallout Bruce knows to anticipate.

But Joker is one thing, and Joker’s day self is entirely another.

If Joker disappears from whatever life he leads during the day, his loved ones will notice. And if they notice, then they’ll poke around and throw the plan into jeopardy. It’s better to nip that in the bud now. He just needs Joker to cooperate.

‘I want to ask you something,’ Bruce says slowly, gunning the ignition. ‘But I get the feeling you either won’t answer or you’ll find a way to warp the truth.’

Joker looks across at him in surprise from the passenger seat.

‘You have good instincts. Is it something personal?’

‘More like private. About what you get up to when we’re not …’

Bruce trails off. He’s not sure how to put it into words as he pulls out of the parking space and turns toward the exit tunnel.

When we’re not us. When the sun comes up and all this turns to stone.

‘When we’re not dancing?’ Joker suggests.

‘Mm.’

The amber lights of the tunnel stripe over Joker in the corner of Bruce’s vision as they drive. Bruce is expecting him to either blow him off or hit on him for trying in the first place. He’s pretty sure he can even predict what Joker’s about to say. It will be one of two things—either, Trying to peek into my head, darling?—or, In my world, we’re never not dancing.

‘How about this?’ Joker says. ‘I’ll answer your question, but you’ll have to answer whatever I ask in return.’ Whatever lightbulb moment just happened in Joker’s head has the clown lighting up, too. ‘We can take turns! Let’s play 20 questions!’

‘That’s not how 20 questions works,’ Bruce says with a frown.

Joker repeats it back at him in a silly voice.

‘Tough! It’s how it works tonight, Bats. Think of it like a trust exercise.’

Hm.

It’s a long drive to Arkham, after all. And it would make a good opportunity for Bruce to glean some insights into Joker’s true identity.

‘I’ll give you 10,’ Bruce bargains, hoping to at least talk him down.

‘But it has to be 20,’ Joker whines. ‘That’s the name of the game.’

‘10 each. It’s 20 total between us. But I’m not answering anything you could use to identify me.’

Joker turns quiet. Bruce uses that moment’s silence to plan a route to Arkham. The Batcave garage acts like a hub connecting up a half-dozen of Gotham’s subterranean tunnels. There’s other hives throughout the city, too, bunkers on each of the three main burgs. They link up all those service tunnels Wayne Industries quietly but legally repurposed just for this. Some even trek underwater beneath South Channel and Gotham River, eventually leading to exits hidden under docks and in commercial garages.

Some of them are purposefully designed to confuse, just in case Bruce ever ended up in a situation with someone riding along. He’s glad of that foresight now, hyperaware of Joker watching from the passenger seat.

‘I can work with that,’ the clown finally answers. He’s grinning as he says it. ‘10 each, you said. No takebacks.’

Honestly, Bruce hadn’t expected the direct approach to actually work. He stalls as he lines a first question up in his head.

‘If you have any limits of your own, you should tell me before we start.’

‘No limits, per se,’ Joker replies, looking out the window. ‘But if you ask me anything about the years before we met, you might find my answers a little vague.’

‘Then there’s my first question,’ Bruce grunts. ‘Why would they be vague?’

‘Oh, that one’s easy. You can have that for free. I have frightful amnesia, darling. But from what I do remember, I wasn’t very happy before my little phoenix moment.’

Bruce isn’t used to hearing Joker sound so mournful.

He rakes over that answer, trying to make sense of it. Joker’s alluded to as much before— that there was some kind of event in the days before the fire. Whatever it was, it changed Joker on a molecular level. It’s hard for Bruce to stay sceptical of that much when Joker has already shown him so much proof—his inhumanly sharp teeth, for one thing—his herbicide blood for another.

Bruce is starting to appreciate just how clearly demarcated that event is in Joker’s mind. The clown sees his life like a before and after. Bruce has never known what came before Joker, the same way Joker has never known the man beneath Batman’s cowl.

‘Go on,’ Joker encourages. ‘Ask another, a real one this time.’

‘You’re not going to make contact for the next few days,’ Bruce says. ‘Is anyone going to wonder where you’ve gone?’

Out of the edge of his vision, Bruce sees Joker look to the Batmobile roof as if he’ll find an answer there.

‘I don’t think so,’ Joker muses. ‘Harley already knows. That was who I called earlier, by the way. But I don’t see many people besides you, to be honest. Maybe my groupies will notice I’ve gone dark on my socials, and there was a drag show in Red Hook I’d planned to crash. But besides that? Nope. Not a soul in the world.’

Bruce dwells on that. It’s a little sad, and he’s a little jealous, too. It would be nice to be able to disappear from public life without raising alarm bells.

‘I’m not like you, love,’ Joker says softly. ‘I’m never not Joker.’ He gestures over himself: his powder white skin, his sharp lipstick smile, his diamond- and spade-patterned embroidered suit. ‘This is me every minute of the day.’

‘It’s your turn,’ Bruce grunts, pointedly watching the road.

That’s so fucking unnerving. Never mind his teeth or throwing cards, Joker’s ability to pluck the thoughts right from Bruce’s head is the scariest thing about him by far— that, and the way he can go from joyous to murderous in a half-second flat. He can’t let himself forget just how much destruction the Clown Prince is capable of. But that’s easier said than done when the man himself is currently bouncing in his seat, grinning unnaturally wide like this is the best night he’s had in years.

‘First question,’ Joker says. ‘Are you single?’

Bruce should have known.

‘Yes,’ he answers carefully. ‘Dating a little. But very much single.’

It’s the truth. He still flirts with beautiful women at high society events, but at this point it’s more for the paparazzi than for himself. It’s been a long while since he actually had the inclination for it. Playing playboy bores him to tears.

Joker nudges him from the passenger side.

‘Your turn, love.’

‘What does a typical day look like for you?’

‘That’s a good one. I live with my sister, so I spend most of the time annoying her. Other than that, I mostly work on schemes to keep you busy. Sometimes I sneak into Gotham University when I need to use their lab equipment. Oh, and lately I’ve been trying to break my personal best on my favourite parkour route.’

Bruce is almost disappointed when Joker trails off. He wants to know more. He’s hungry for the stupid details he wonders about every time they’re done for the night, collapsing in bed with Joker lingering larger than life in his head.

What do you dream about? What kind of movies do you like?

Stay focussed, asshole.

Right. This is work. Those kinds of questions won’t help him unpick the puzzle.

He has to stay focussed.

‘Next question,’ Bruce growls, bracing for another suggestive tease.

‘Who’s your hero?’ Joker asks. ‘And please, I’m begging you. Don’t say Superman.’

Bruce can’t help but smile. It’s a nice surprise. He wasn’t expecting something genuine and heartfelt instead of surface-level and provocative.

He knows his answer. In his head, he starts trimming off the identifying factors. He’s fairly sure Joker would know if he lied and would start twisting his own answers into untruths to match, but that’s not why Bruce is planning on answering honestly.

It’s because they’ve been evenly matched all night.

He gave Joker a free shot in the alley to even the score. They’ve been keeping it balanced ever since, counting each other’s hits.

Bruce doesn’t want to break that.

‘It’s not a very exciting answer, but. My legal guardian.’

Joker nods slowly, processing.

‘Would you give me a freebie and tell me why?’

‘He’s stern, but he got me through the hardest time of my life. Even though he could have left.’ Bruce stops there. Joker is clever enough to start joining dots if he gets any more specific. ‘I can’t tell you more than that.’

‘That’s okay. I liked what I got.’ Joker’s grin makes a Cheshire reflection on the passenger-side window. ‘He sounds like a helluva guy. I’ll make him a balloon bouquet if I ever get the chance.’

The service tunnel exits out into a garage. They’re in East Park Side, not far from the ocean, and Joker’s eyes glimmer with interest in the side mirror. Good luck, Bruce thinks privately. If Joker wants to find the garage again down the line, he’s going to have his work cut out for him. There are more than 15 just like it in the area. More than half of those are dummy tunnels, only destined for dead-ends.

It’s Bruce’s turn. He goes over a couple options in his head.

‘You mentioned a sister. Tell me more about her.’

‘Harley? Sure! She’s my best friend.’

Joker must be able to sense Bruce’s confusion. He giggles, drawing his phone out of his pocket.

‘We’re not blood relatives, but Harley’s the only family I have. She’s helped me work through a lot. Self-image issues, that type of thing. I guess you could say she’s kind of like my guardian.’ Joker punches out a text, smiling fondly at his phone before he slips it back into his pocket. ‘I’m very lucky to have her in my life.’

The notion of Joker of all people having self-image issues seems dubious at best, given the way he flaunts his body every chance he gets. Bruce is more surprised by the new information about Harley, though. If their relationship is more like siblings behind closed doors, then she’s one hell of an actress. She has that doe-eyed crush down to an art form. He’s glad to hear Joker has someone like that, poised to keep him on the rails when he starts to slide.

But it’s more of a relief that he’s not dating her.

Bruce is horrified by the part of him that’s content with that. He’s glad to know Joker is single. God, when did that happen? Is he single?

Suddenly, Bruce wants that to be his next question. It’s on the tip of his tongue.

For fuck’s sake, he berates himself internally. Stop thinking with your dick. Get back to the job.

‘My turn!’ Joker announces. ‘It’s karaoke night. What are you singing?’

Trying to predict Joker’s next words is impossible at the best of times, let alone now. Desire is turning Bruce stupid. He feels like each of his thoughts has to move through honey before it can form.

‘That’s weirdly personal, isn’t it?’

‘Come on, Bats. I’m hardly going to be able to unmask you with that. And if I can, then you probably deserve it.’

‘True.’ Bruce thinks for a moment. ‘Psycho Killer by Talking Heads.’

‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’

‘It’s the first thing that came into my head.’

‘Then I think you might be a little bit of a punk, Batman.’

‘Maybe,’ Bruce admits. ‘Don’t go telling anyone.’

‘I won’t.’ A possessive gleam dances in Joker’s eyes. ‘It can be our little secret. It’s your turn, love.’

Bruce lets out a slow breath through his nose.

‘Where do you get your suits?’

Joker lets out a delighted laugh.

‘Are you after a recommendation? You’d look good in cashmere.’ The Clown Prince of Crime adjusts his lapels, then checks his skull-shaped cufflinks. ‘They’re tailored. Smylex originals, I call them. But the materials were gleefully purloined from people with far too much money for their own good. The Falcones, the Drakes. Heh, I’ve even rooted around in Bruce Wayne’s closet!’

Concerning. He’ll have to up security on the Manor, maybe put in that laser grid after all.

‘Not that anyone would know,’ Joker continues, unaware. ‘By the time I’m done, my suits are entirely made new.’

‘You mean you tailor them?’ Bruce tips his head. ‘I didn’t know you could sew.’

Joker lets out an offended gasp.

‘Yes, you did! How did you think all those Big Tops ended up in one piece? Admittedly, it wasn’t my best work.’ Joker crosses his arms sulkily, sinking back in his seat. ‘If I’d done a better job, it wouldn’t have come loose and nearly killed me.’

Something shifts in Bruce’s understanding. It really was an accident, then. Joker taking off his glove and trying to fall, that part will never be okay. But it’s a relief to know for sure that it wasn’t a pre-meditated attempt. On a normal person, poor impulse control might look like hurling their phone onto the freeway or jumping into Gotham River. On Joker, it looks like falling from the top of Wayne Tower just to prove Batman will catch him. It’s melodramatic, it’s maddening, and Bruce wonders what it says about him that he’s beginning to understand.

‘Where did you learn to?’ he asks, knowing full well he’s wasting a question. ‘To sew, I mean.’

‘That’s two in a row,’ Joker points out.

‘Humour me. I’ll let you do the same on your turn.’

‘So kind.’ Joker’s eyes twinkle. ‘I’m just sorry to have to disappoint you. I really don’t remember.’

Fuck. The amnesia. Bruce kicks himself, wishing he’d reined in the impulse after all. But then Joker’s voice turns thoughtful as he looks out over the city lights.

‘I think I did it for a hobby, maybe.’ His voice tips down with bitterness. ‘Something to keep me sane when I wasn’t at work, getting used and abused.’

Bruce’s fingers clench around the wheel.

He grits his teeth against the sudden stab of anger. He could use another question to follow up, but he wouldn’t know where to start. What did they do? Did they put their hands on you? Who was it? Give me a name, just one. That’s all I’ll need.

‘My turn now?’ Joker asks. Bruce is glad for the interruption to his dark line of thought.

‘Fire away.’

‘Right! Here’s my two-fer. First, what side do you sleep on? And second—’ Joker makes a finger gun at him. ‘How would you describe your sexuality?’

There it is.

Bruce would have put money on Joker working his way to that one sooner or later.

‘Are those connected?’ Bruce wonders aloud, hitting the indicator.

Joker laughs.

‘That really depends on your answer.’

Bruce shouldn’t want to tell him, he knows he shouldn’t, but his stomach is hot with interest and his common sense has gone entirely offline.

‘I sleep on my back,’ he admits, turning onto the freeway. Joker punches the air.

‘I knew it!’ And Joker’s grin is wide and brilliant, spreading ear to ear across his powder white face, his eyebrows just barely lifting up. ‘… And?’

Maybe it’s because it’s the longest the two of them have ever talked, or maybe it’s because they’re sealed away in the Batmobile cabin together, separated from the rest of the world. But this?

This is working on Bruce.

Joker’s sharp, quick-witted and charming, stealing little glances across at him with that thousand-watt smile. And Bruce has no survival instincts at all, apparently—not a single one—because he opens his mouth and answers.

‘I’m bisexual.’

If it wasn’t before, then the atmosphere is definitely charged now, the air between them practically sparking in the heat.

‘For what it’s worth,’ Joker says, like it’s a confession. ‘I sleep on my side. Also, I’m gay.’

‘We know.’

‘We?’

‘All of Gotham, Joker.’

‘Ha, I suppose you’re right.’ Joker draws his legs up underneath him lazily, manoeuvring so he’s sitting cross-legged instead. ‘I just wanted to put you at ease. You’re in good company. It’s your turn, by the way.’

There are so many useful things Bruce could ask, and right now, he can’t think of a single one.

‘What’s your natural hair colour?’

‘Um. Green, as far as I can tell.’

Bruce glances across at him for a brief second before putting his attention back to the freeway. He catches Joker picking at his fingernails with a frown.

‘It used to be brown,’ Joker says. ‘But I don’t, like. Dye it or anything.’

It’s funny how this is the first question to tangle Joker up.

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Something happened to make me like this,’ Joker huffs. ‘But you know that already. You’re not stupid. And don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it did, but—’

Joker silences himself, his expression abruptly shifting.

‘I think I know how I can explain this, actually. Think of it like gender affirmation surgery.’

‘What.’

‘Stay with me, here. I was always meant to have natural green hair, even if that’s not what my body said at first. And I was always meant to have skin like this, blood like this. Even teeth like this.’ Joker’s voice drops down to a murmur. ‘Though they don’t make things easy, that’s for sure.’

Bruce is beginning to understand. The metaphor helps. Whatever happened to Joker overwrote his original characteristics. He prefers the change.

‘So it just … grows green?’

‘It sure does.’

‘… Everywhere?’

It’s suddenly altogether too hot under the cowl. It slipped out before Bruce could stop himself. It gets hotter again when Joker gasps out a sweet little breath and looks over at him in disbelief.

The air tunnel rushes along the sides of the Batmobile. Bruce can hear his own blood in the sound, more than a little of it rushing south.

‘That,’ Joker says, ‘would cost you another question, darling.’

Bruce swallows.

‘Then I’ll just have to wonder. It’s your turn.’

While Joker ponders his next question, Bruce is just pondering what the fuck is wrong with him. There has to be something, has to be, because he’s flirting with the Joker on their way to Arkham Island. He’s taking the scenic route around Gotham so he can have more time to get to know him.

‘Which of your senses is your strongest?’ Joker asks. ‘Like, seeing, hearing …’

Bruce thinks it over. It’s not touch, smell or taste. All of those seem average when his hearing and vision are both trained to a fine point by comparison. Then again, he caught himself squinting to read a freeway sign last week.

‘Hearing.’

‘No,’ Joker gasps. ‘Really?’

‘Pretty sure.’

‘And do you scream at the walls to figure out where they are? Do you sleep upside-down in your cave?’

Bruce rolls his eyes under the cowl.

‘Are those your next questions?’

‘No way! My next one’s really good, trust me. But it’s your turn.’

‘Do you have any medical conditions?’

‘Are we pretending you don’t already know? You’ve got a little shrine all about me. Pop quiz, what’s my blood type?’

‘Indeterminate,’ Bruce growls. There’s no way he could know. ‘Your blood comes back unreadable because of the toxin. You’re getting O-negative in an emergency, universal donor.’

‘Ding-ding-ding! Full marks, Bats!’

‘I want to make sure your file isn’t missing anything important.’

‘Such as?’

‘Like if they give you hypnotherapy and the flashing lights give you a seizure.’

‘Ooh. Okay, I can see your logic now. Let me think.’ There’s a moment of quiet as Joker frowns down at his hands. ‘There’s the blood thing, and the muscle thing— Ehler-Danlos syndrome, if we’re being technical.’

Bruce knew that one already. Ehler-Danlos—“EDS”—affects skin and joints. It turns connective tissue into elastic. That’s why Joker can pop his hypermobile joints in and out on a whim. It’s probably even part of why his skin borders on translucent. But at the same time, EDS is why he’s so fragile. He bruises like a peach, mottled purple, green and yellow after every fight even though Joker dismisses the damage out of hand, never letting it slow him down.

The disorder explains a lot, but it doesn’t account for everything. It doesn’t explain how Joker is whiter than snow and has a jaw span to rival a hunting shark. It doesn’t explain his hair or his blood or his origins.

‘I’m probably anaemic,’ Joker concedes. ‘Like you said, my blood is indeterminate. As for mental medical conditions, well.  You probably know more than I do. I haven’t seen what came of my psych eval. Frankly, I don’t care to.’

Bruce lets go of the breath he’d taken to tell him.

He’s read that report several times over. It came out just as inconclusive as Joker’s blood profile. Signs point toward histrionic personality disorder, most likely comorbid with borderline or bipolar, but it’s nothing concrete.

‘What does that look mean?’ Joker scrunches up his face. ‘No, don’t tell me. Ugh. I hate that you’re making me curious. I hope whatever it said wasn’t too awful. Insult to injury. It’s not as if I can take medication to help.’

‘It wasn’t all doom and gloom.’

It really wasn’t. The psychiatrists were able to confirm that Joker isn’t suicidal. He’s not insane, either; not a psychopath, a sociopath or any kind of homicidal. He’s something, alright. The manic episodes and impulsive behaviour are a major cause for concern. But he’s not certifiable.

And he’s not beyond help.

‘Thank you,’ Joker says. ‘But I don’t want to hear another word on it, darling.’

Bruce nods, letting it go.

‘It’s your turn.’

‘Again?’ Joker frowns. ‘How many do I have left now?’

‘This is your eighth.’

‘Perfect. That’s just enough. What’s your pet peeve? And if you say clowns, I’m going to cry.’

Bruce huffs a laugh.

‘You’d be surprised,’ he says, unable to help himself. ‘They’re starting to grow on me.’

‘Now, there’s a horror movie in the making.’

‘When people crowd the elevator doors before they open.’

Joker groans knowingly.

‘I get that with trains. Everyone blocking the exits. It’s like, hello? Why can’t you just wait for your turn? Speaking of …’

Bruce takes the hint. He steels himself. This is the one he’s been building up to, hoping he could get Joker to lower his guard before it comes.

‘You might not be able to answer, but I’ll take whatever I can get. The night we met, you were burning down a chemical factory. I’ve always wondered why.’

They’re at Arkham Island now, about to head up those winding hills. Bruce reaches over to shift gears, and just for a second, he thinks Joker’s going to meet his hand in the middle. And just for a second, he doesn’t know whether he would pull away.

‘I would tell you,’ Joker says quietly. ‘If you were just curious, I wouldn’t even think about it. But I know you would use it to go prying into the life I left behind. I did have a reason, I can tell you that much. It wouldn’t make sense to you. But it wasn’t pointless.’

Bruce knows better than to push him further. It’s enough of a clue as it is: Joker has a personal connection to Ace Chemicals. In some ways, it’s a relief.

‘It wasn’t just to lure me out?’

‘Not even a little,’ Joker assures him. ‘Though I’m very glad it did, darling.’

That’s one more worry Bruce can put to bed, then; another burden Joker’s game of questions has managed to lift from his shoulders.

‘Next question,’ Joker says. ‘Do you have a big family?’

‘No.’

Bruce’s skin prickles with discomfort. He should have known things were going too well. He’s tempted to leave his answer monosyllabic, only tacking on a clarification as they pass through Arkham’s gates.

‘Just my guardian.’

It’s not just that it’s too revealing. It’s that it’s too painful. Bruce Wayne has his rehearsed answers for the media, little scripts he turns to whenever an interviewer brings it up. None of that armour is available to him when he’s Batman.

Joker makes a low hum in the back of his throat.

‘This one’s your ninth, by the way.’

‘I’m out of good ones.’ That last question threw him. Bruce struggles to think of something until an owl flaps by overhead. ‘What’s your favourite animal?’

‘Hyenas!’ Joker shouts, not even needing to think about it. ‘They make me feel seen when they cackle for no reason like that!’

‘Is that so?’ Bruce can’t help a smile. ‘Have you been to Gotham Zoo before?’

‘Mm, no? Not that I can recall.’

‘They have hyenas.’

‘They do?’

‘A mated pair.’

Joker gasps, excitement rippling out from him as he claps his hands.

‘I know where I’m taking you for our next dance, Bats! What are you doing on Thursday?’

‘Apparently I’m staking out Gotham Zoo,’ Bruce replies drily, and Joker beams. ‘It’s your last question.’

‘Good timing.’

He’s not wrong. Bruce pulls the Batmobile into the drop-off zone outside Arkham’s main entrance. It’s a good thing that it’s fully empty tonight: the Batmobile is so broad across that it doesn’t leave room for much else. Joker waits for him to cut the engine before he undoes his seatbelt and turns to face him.

‘Okay.’ There’s a serious look on his made-over face. ‘Why— and you can answer this as vaguely as you need to, darling. But why did you become Batman?’

Bruce goes tense. He let down his guard— he let Joker lull him into a false sense of security, and now—

‘Hey,’ Joker murmurs, a sunbeam through the storm. ‘As vaguely as you need to.’

Bruce’s guard comes lowering right back down. It’s pacified completely by the soft, honest clown sitting in his passenger seat.

He’s just so charming. He’s earnest, clever, flirting back and volleying the conversation all night with more rhythm and ease than any of the women Bruce has had on his arm at galleries and operas. And he’s interesting. Everything about Joker is so fucking interesting.

God help him, but Joker’s doing it for him.

‘I had a family. It wasn’t a big one. And if there had been a Batman for me, when it mattered … I would still have them.’

It takes a moment for Bruce to work up the emotional courage to look across at him.

He finds Joker staring back at him like he just caught a glimpse of heaven itself.

‘It’s– it’s your question,’ Joker stammers. ‘Last one. Your.’

And Bruce just thinks, Damn. Because he’s pretty sure he would have made it through this if it wasn’t for that—if Joker hadn’t jumbled his words up just because Batman told him the truth—if Joker wasn’t looking at him like that, moonlight catching on his lipstick and devotion shining in his eyes.

Last question.

‘Before I take you in,’ Bruce says, voice gone rough. ‘Can I give you a goodbye kiss?’

And Joker just stops. He stops tapping his leg. He stops casting his eyes up and down the cowl. He even stops breathing. A second ticks by, then another, before Joker hauls down a breath of life. An entirely new look casts over his sharp features.

They’re standing in the eye of a hurricane, that’s what it feels like, and Joker’s a force of nature or a natural disaster depending on the day. But not all hurricanes are bad. This one could bring the rain. It could breathe life back into a heat mesa, a wasteland place turned arid and parched. It could wash out Bruce’s whole world with green.

Joker’s answer is a reverent, one-word prayer.

‘Yes.’

Bruce leans across the console—slowly, not wanting to startle him—heart thundering in his chest the entire time. Joker’s eyes are blown and he’s worrying his lip with his teeth.

When Bruce settles a hand on the back of his neck, Joker shudders, making a wounded little noise like he’s being strangled. Beyond that, he stays stock still. He doesn’t move even when Bruce brings their lips together, their first kiss, and the chant inside Bruce’s skull of what am I doing, what do I think I’m doing finally goes silent. In its place is just a single warm whisper.

Fuck, he feels good.

Bruce kisses one of Joker’s lips, then the other, then right in the middle and stays there. It’s only when he doesn’t pull back that Joker seems to let himself believe it. He melts into Bruce’s arms and starts kissing back. A shaky exhale fans out from his nose. It smells so good, artificial sweetener and helium on his breath.

It doesn’t matter that it’s closed mouth. Kissing Joker is like taking morphine. It’s euphoric. It’s mind-numbing, addictive, it’s just so fucking good. Bruce feels the kiss in triplicate; it’s on his mouth and his collar and the back of his neck, referred pleasure instead of referred pain.

He forces himself to break away all too soon. Because if he doesn’t stop now, then he won’t stop ever. It takes everything in him to slide back to the driver’s seat. Joker’s falsetto voice comes out unsteady.

‘Can you do that every time you drop me off here?’

I shouldn’t have done that, Bruce thinks.

Then right on its heels, I really want to do that again.

It’s been years since just a kiss felt so good.

‘Think nothing of it.’ Bruce echoes Joker’s words from earlier back to him, hiding behind a growl. ‘Something to remember me by when you walk into Arkham.’

‘I couldn’t forget you, Bats.’ Joker has the wildest look in his acid green eyes. He climbs out of the Batmobile and Bruce follows him, working hard to bury his smile as he takes Joker by the elbow and steers him toward Arkham’s main entrance. Joker leans into his side. ‘I could never, ever, forget about you.’

Chapter Text

As entertaining as those bombshell red kisses all over Batman’s face might be, Joker doesn’t think they’re exactly conducive to their plan. He stops Batman right before they go through the front doors together, tugging the vigilante back behind a pillar.

‘One moment, love.’

Joker licks the edge of his sleeve. He tries not to smirk when Batman’s eyes flit down to his mouth.

‘What are you doing?’

‘You have a little something,’ Joker explains. ‘Right here.’

He’s as careful as he can be about dabbing the lipstick from his darling’s mouth. But that doesn’t seem to matter. Batman still stays tense the entire time. Even with the cowl’s lenses between them, Joker can feel the heat in his stare. He hopes with all his heart he’s not imagining it, or the way Batman’s gaze seems locked on Joker’s lipstick like he’d much rather be tasting it some more.

Joker had an easier admission his first time around. Now that they know he can and will break out of here given the chance, the staff rake him over with a much more critical eye. They confiscate his belongings like last time, but the strip search? Well, that’s new. It doesn’t uncover any of the hidden surveillance devices, thank God. Joker breathes an internal sigh of relief when everything unfolds just the way they’d planned.

Once they finish searching him, they make him take a base level psychological assessment. Joker screws with it as a matter of course, answering in a scale. He loves how the night nurse’s mouth tightens with annoyance even as she begrudgingly notes down his made-up answers.

It’s not until the next morning that the reality of what happened in the Batmobile really catches up to him. He wakes up from his nap to a polite chime over the PA system announcing that breakfast is being served in the cafeteria in 15 minutes. And the first thing Joker thinks is, That’s right, I’m in Arkham again.

But the second thing is, Bats kissed me last night.

‘Bats?’ he whispers, hardly daring to hope.

‘Right here,’ growls an instant reply, and Joker has to grab his pillow and scream into it he’s so fucking excited. ‘Calm down. You’re supposed to be stable.’

Oh God, oh hell. Batman is right inside his head. His voice is everywhere, inescapable. Joker felt it a little last night in the cave before his brain made the unconscious choice to shut down the sudden rush of excitement. It was as if the most self-protective cluster of his mind said, I’m just going to turn this off for you until you’re ready.

Apparently, Joker woke up ready, because now those floodgates are bursting open in a rush. It lets the elation tear through him like a tsunami, rocking him from top to toe. His grin feels wider than his entire face.

Batman is inside him. Batman kissed him.

Batman’s single, bisexual and flirted with him the whole way here.

‘Breakfast,’ Batman reminds him.

Joker beams, bouncing out of bed.

‘Yes, sir!’

All the way to the cafeteria, he can’t get the lovestruck smile off his face. His heart is soaring. Bats kissed him. And what a kiss! He was so sweet and tender, a complete gentleman. He even asked first, as if there’s any reality where Joker would ever say no to him.

The whole drive was perfect. The rhythm, the banter, the little glances Bats kept sending his way from the driver’s side. Every one of his answers was so honest and trusting.

But the kiss. Give him a hundred years and Joker would still remember how right that felt. The whole world stopped turning the instant Bats cupped the back of his neck and guided him in. He can still hear the way the hero groaned right into Joker’s mouth when Joker kissed him back. That sound was so stark against the crickets’ song outside, a throaty rumble of desire drowning out the wet noises of their mouths meeting.

Thinking about it after the fact makes Joker’s lungs shiver. If he could go back in time and live in that moment forever, he would be so tempted. The only reason he’d refuse is because if he gets his way, there’s going to be another kiss when he gets out of here. And next time? He’s making it his mission to find out what his darling’s tongue tastes like.

Joker heads down the stairs behind the base of the lighthouse, then follows the signs to the cafeteria. The sterile metal tables of the dining hall aren’t exactly welcoming. They don’t make the place feel any less like a prison, either. There’s an orderly behind a bain-marie, serving trays for the patients still filtering in. Joker eagerly joins the end of the line. He gets a moment to look around, noting the nurse’s office. It has a service window into the cafeteria where a woman in a capped uniform watches the patients taking their meal. Joker follows her gaze. They’ve split naturally into three main groups— but it’s his turn at the bain-marie before he can puzzle out why.

The orderly behind the counter has a kink to his nose. It’s bent a little from the top like it was broken once—or more than once—and never healed properly. Joker reads the thin man’s name badge.

‘Hi, Aaron.’

Aaron just looks at him coldly.

‘Corn flakes or toast?’

‘Toast,’ Joker grins. ‘This place has enough cereal killers already, don’t you think?’

Aaron grunts. When he reaches for one of the plates where the bread is scraped with jam, Joker wrinkles his nose.

‘Could I have one of the marmalade ones instead, please?’

‘You get what you’re given.’ The orderly frowns at him. ‘What’s wrong with your teeth? They’re even worse than Waylon’s.’

‘What do sharks like on their toast?’ Joker asks, leaning in a little. ‘Mermalade.’

It’s enough to get him a snort. Aaron starts sliding him a plate, then inches it back before Joker can get to it.

‘Please?’ Joker bats his eyelashes at him. ‘I hate it when guys don’t let me crumb.’

Aaron cracks a crooked smile, the first one Joker’s seen him give. He lets him take the plate after that. Joker doesn’t miss how his eyes linger, either. He tosses Aaron a wink before he turns and starts deciding on a table.

The first table, he writes off immediately. It’s particularly intimidating. Of the three men gathered there, Joker recognises two of them from the news. The first scowls down at a plate of burned bacon.

Out of nowhere, the contact lenses start reacting. They grab at different anchor points on the man’s face to run facial recognition, and Joker’s impressed when it finds a match in three seconds flat.

Valentin Flamenco.

Batman put Flamenco away last year, long before Joker ever came onto the scene. News headlines and articles start popping up in the rightmost field of Joker’s vision a moment later, confirming what he already knew. They say things like FLAMBOYANT FIEND; FIVE DEAD IN FLAMINGO FEAST; CANNIBAL CAGED, GAZETTE EXCLUSIVE.

Sitting beside Flamenco is Waylon Jones. Joker doesn’t need the facial recognition to recognise him. The man is dauntingly huge with skin so coarse it’s practically scaled. Those teeth and nails belong on an alligator rather than a man.

Custodians found him trapped in an aqueduct out in the Narrows. He’d been living down in the storm drains for months, it seemed, only emerging to kill passers-by and drag them back into the muck to consume. It took GCPD half a day and the lives of three officers to take Waylon down. The Gazette dubbed him Killer Croc, the King of the Sewers. He’s been shuttled between Arkham and Blackgate ever since.

The third man sitting opposite the two of them is a mystery to Joker, as is the bespectacled older gentleman sitting further down their bench by himself, quietly poring over his corn flakes. No data springs up for either of them. It’s the same case for the next table over where two women are sat by themselves. One of them tics every now and again, flinching or popping her tongue; they’re silent otherwise. Bats doesn’t seem to feel the need to clue Joker in on who they are. It’s silly, but the sudden radio silence has Joker’s heart sinking low in his chest.

But when Joker’s eyes cast over the third table, he brightens right back up. One of his buddies from last time around is still here. He’s sitting with someone Joker doesn’t know, but that’s okay. Lately, he’s been getting much better at making friends.

‘Hi Jules,’ Joker beams, slipping into the seat next to him. ‘Can’t believe you’re still in here, pal.’

Jules makes a noise in response like a squashed giggle. He’s looking nowhere near Joker when he smiles. His shoulders lift in an exaggerated shrug.

His real name is Julian, but Joker doesn’t like the way the orderlies say it. They have a sharp tone when they do, like they’re calling a dog or issuing an insult. He’s a sweet guy, really; short, plump and easily overwhelmed. He has a look about him like he’d be a school janitor in another life. He’d be a good one, Joker thinks. The kind the kids know by name and high-five in the halls.

In this life, though, Jules wasn’t dealt those cards. His trichotillomania looks like it’s getting worse. The hair at the sides of his head has thinned right down from where he’s been picking and his fringe is almost entirely gone. Jules reaches for another strand like he saw Joker looking. Joker’s quick to distract him before he can get to it.

‘Not long ‘til Christmas now, huh?’

‘Halloween’s closer,’ Jules blurts. ‘October 31st. Last saw you March 14th. Mon-month after Valentine’s Day.’

The sentence fragments seem involuntary, more like hiccups than speech. Jules starts muttering dates to himself. He gets up from the table and wanders over to the wall calendar by the nurse’s window before long, leafing through its pages. At least it keeps his hands away from his hair. Each month on the calendar has a different picture of a kitten. Jules seems more interested in the boxes and numbers beneath them, the future mapped out in neat little squares.

It’s a sobering picture. Joker has kept himself out of Arkham for just over six months now. But for all of that time, it looks like Jules hasn’t improved anywhere near enough to be considered for release.

Joker drags his eyes away with some effort. He gives the remaining man opposite him at the table a quick smile, looking him over. He has good posture and fine features but he’s as thin as a rake. Snowy dandruff dusts along his hairline. He must be clammy—there’s a layer of cold sweat to him, making him glisten like an iceberg—and like every other patient in the cafeteria, he’s wearing a grey jumpsuit. Lucky devils. Joker is still stuck in garish orange because he’s a new arrival, not to mention that he didn’t exactly behave himself last time by breaking out.

‘We haven’t been introduced.’ Joker makes his toast dance on its plate. ‘I’m Joker! It’s slice to meet you.’

‘Ah, Victor,’ the man answers, offering a hand to shake. He winces self-effacingly when Joker takes it. ‘Sorry. I know my hands are cold.’

It feels normal enough to Joker, but he’s happy enough not to question it.

‘How long have you been around?’ Joker asks delicately. ‘You don’t have to answer. I just don’t remember you from last time I was here.’

‘Oh, um.’ It seems to take him aback. Victor’s brows line in a frown as he looks down to his hands, counting on his fingers. ‘Just over a month now.’

Then he would have been here when Harvey Dent was admitted. Joker makes a mental note of it. It’s too soon to go probing on it now, especially when everything about Victor screams fragility. He can circle back to it in the future once he’s built a better rapport.

‘I was doing okay for a while,’ Victor adds. ‘Until I spiralled.’

Joker nods sympathetically.

‘If you were okay for a while, then you will be again.’

‘That’s kind of you to say.’

Victor’s weak laugh is almost soundless. He shudders, hugging himself around the middle even though it has to be 70 degrees in the cafeteria. He even cups his hands to blow on them.

‘How about you?’ Victor asks. ‘You seem well-adjusted.’

‘First impressions can be deceiving, Vic. Can I call you Vic?’

‘If you like.’

‘Vic it is! No, I’m afraid I’m as mad as a cut snake. But I’m a special case.’

It gives Joker an idea. He’s always been good at reading people. It’s what he’s best at. And Victor, he’s all eager and jittery like this is the most he’s talked to anyone not wearing a doctor’s coat all month long.

‘Can I let you in on a secret? Just between us.’

‘Me?’ Victor looks surprised before he leans closer across the table. ‘Of course.’

‘Don’t,’ Batman growls. ‘Don’t mention me.’

So now he has something to say? Joker can’t ignore the quick flash of frustration at the back of his heart. It’s not as if he doesn’t know what he’s doing. And Victor just isn’t the type to initiate. Any secret will stop with him, and that little act of trust will help forge a relationship between them. The more friends Joker has in here, the easier a time he’ll have gathering information down the track.

‘Batman,’ Joker whispers, ‘is screening me to be his sidekick.’

Victor goes stock still.

‘What?’

‘I know!’ Joker works hard to keep his voice down at a whisper. ‘Isn’t that just crazy? He’s got the doctors here checking me over to make sure I’m stable. I’ve done some pretty wild stuff, after all …’

Joker trails off.

Victor is shivering.

He’s gasping for breath, hollow eyes panicked as they dart around the cafeteria.

‘Vic?’ Joker drums his fingers on the table, trying to recapture his attention. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Joker,’ Batman warns. ‘Back off.’

Victor shrinks into himself, grip tightening around his own stomach. He’s not dangerous. Joker would stake his life on that. At least, he’s not dangerous to anyone except himself. And suddenly Joker understands that he’s playing with fire when he pokes around at Victor’s ice. It’s the blind leading the blind. Nobody within these walls is mentally stable—not Victor—not even himself.

‘It’s freezing in here,’ Victor stutters. ‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘Now that you mention it.’ Joker takes Batman’s advice like he should have done in the first place. He keeps an even tone as he starts getting up. ‘It is kind of chilly in here. I’ll go ask them to turn on the heaters for you. Okay, champ?’

‘Th-thank you,’ Victor gasps.

Joker pushes away from the bench. He heads for the nurse’s office, bypassing the rest of the stainless-steel cafeteria tables. He supposes that there is a sort of coldness to the vast space. But it’s not a physical cold. It’s atmospheric. Even at room temperature, the room feels like a surgical theatre glowing clinically under fluorescent lights.

Joker waits until he’s out of earshot before he whispers under his breath.

‘What triggered him?’

‘Me,’ Batman answers. ‘Victor was on the Costa Euralea with me back in March.’

Bats pulls up another news story. There’s really no need; Joker knows more about the Euralea than most maritime historians ever will. He’s studied everything about the night they met, right down to the weather conditions and even the alignment of the stars. But he keeps that little detail to himself.

This article has video footage. THE COST OF EURALEA. It’s from the Gazette helicopter, showing the massive cruise liner listing hard to port in the beams of the searchlights, coast guard speedboats roving all around it in the rescue effort.

‘Things got ugly.’

Joker doesn’t respond. He raps his knuckles gently on the nurse’s office. It’s windowed like a pharmacy dispensary, the walls inside painted in pastel hues. There’s a meticulous desk against the back wall, the nerve centre of the space, and the shelves are stocked with medical paraphernalia like bandages and swabs. The nurse rolls the window across, raising an eyebrow at him.

‘Hi,’ Joker chirps. ‘My buddy’s feeling a chill. Could I grab a blanket for him, please?’

Her eyes automatically go to where Victor’s sitting at the back of the room. Just from that, Joker gets the sense that this isn’t an uncommon occurrence. He waits until she’s moved through a staff only door before he speaks again.

‘The cold thing,’ Joker says. ‘That’s a delusion?’

‘Seems that way.’

Joker swallows, admonished.

‘I should have listened to you. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s better to learn that lesson now than later.’

It’s right in the sweet spot between forgiveness and consequence, and it sends a shiver down Joker’s spine. Asylum or not, he thinks he could stay like this forever: with Batman tracking his breaths, purring his growls directly into Joker’s head. He likes his train of thought so much better when Batman’s along for the ride.

‘I’m trusting you, Joker,’ he says, heavy like an anchor. ‘So trust me back.’

The nurse slips back through the staff only door with a pink patchwork quilt slung over one of her arms. It’s probably her favourite colour. Her high heels are the same and so are the arms of her glasses.

‘Here,’ she says, handing it to him through the window. ‘Anything else?’

It’s almost abrasive, but Joker doesn’t mind. He likes that a hell of a lot more than the coddling he gets from the doctors or the open reproach from the orderlies. He decides he likes the nurse, and his eyes flit to her name badge—

Jackie.

‘Thank you,’ Joker says as brightly as he can force himself to. He rakes his fingers over the woolly blanket, stiffly turning away from her. Here, he tells himself, crossing back to his table on autopilot. You’re right here.

Joker recognises Dr. Crane by his smell before anything else. He reeks of burned rubber like a spatula left on a stove. The doctor is wearing reading glasses today, round with thick lenses. The fluorescent lights above them reflect off the glass in vertical stripes, otherwise hiding his eyes from view. Dr. Crane is looming over Victor with a hand on his shoulder.

Joker’s heart sinks. Victor’s shaking was minor when Joker left him at the table, but now it’s much more severe. Those full-body shudders border on violent. He’s shaking like his life is in danger, like he fell into a frozen lake and only barely managed to drag himself free. There are orderlies on either side of him, ready to intervene.

‘Mr. Joker,’ Crane says warmly. Joker ignores him. He’s more focussed on Victor, feeling twisted up inside from guilt. This is Joker’s fault. The whitecoats are descending on Victor because Joker ignored Batman’s advice.

‘Here you go, pal. To keep you warm.’

Joker drapes the blanket around Victor’s shoulders before Crane has a chance to stop him, though the doctor raises a hand like he has intent to try. Then Joker leans close to Victor’s ear.

‘I’m sorry I upset you,’ he whispers. ‘But I’m glad that we met.’

Victor’s eyes lock onto him in the midst of the panic attack. They tunnel right in on Joker like there’s nothing else in the room.

‘Me t-too,’ Victor wheezes. ‘S-see you.’

And as the orderlies lead Victor toward the exit under Crane’s instruction, Joker decides then and there that Victor is going to be his friend for life.

Crane gives Joker an odd look before that expression cracks into a controlled smile. He claps him on the arm again like he did that night in the interview room. Joker bristles. It’s still altogether too familiar for his liking.

‘Welcome back, Mr. Joker.’

Joker rubs the prickling place at the side of his arm, glaring at the back of that white coat until Crane disappears from the cafeteria. The nurse joins them in the cafeteria, clipboard in hand. She clears her throat to get their attention.

‘Lucy,’ she calls. ‘Olga. The two of you are in the sensory room today. Victor might join you later if he’s feeling any better. Julian, Arnold, Joker. You’re in the reading room. Roland, Waylon, Valentin …’

But each name she says is harder to hold onto. Something is disconnecting between Joker’s brain and his body, his senses fading out one by one until all he can see is her name badge. Jackie. Why did it have to be Jackie? Her name starts pounding behind his eyes like a headache.

Jackie.

Jackie.

Joker’s forearms prickle up with gooseflesh. He tries to clench his trembling hands into fists but he can’t get them to fold all of the way in, staring down at them mutely as his breath turns rabbit fast. Jackie. He can’t get away from it. He can hear his name— feel it like rancid breath on the back of his neck. They only started calling him that around the factory when one of them found him online and saw he was gender questioning from his bio. He deleted every shred of his social media presence but by then it was too late, the damage had already been done, and after that it was Jackie just as often as it was— a-as it was Jacks—

Get out of my head.

Joker screws his eyes shut as tight as they can go. His blood is rushing around inside of him, crackling like a Geiger counter against his eardrums. His hands are shaking and he can’t breathe, and all at once he can’t brave the thought of looking over his own shoulder.

There’s something there.

It’s right behind him. He can feel whatever it is, hear it whispering the name he doesn’t want anymore. It’s demanding he remember all of that loneliness, croaking memories into his ear in a voice that sounds the same way burlap feels.

Got a spill up on the mezz, the factory overseer croons behind him. Joker can feel the man’s breath against his hair. He smells like sawdust and straw. Clean it and close up for the night. We’ll fix the overtime up tomorrow.

What if that breath in his hair bleaches all the colour back out? A-and there’s no green left, and suddenly he’s just normal again, flat and boring and lonely and nobody will ever look at him again, God please no. But he can’t stop it. His world is fissuring apart, shadows sneaking in from the edge of his vision—I can’t again please don’t make me go back in there—the floor is turning into an iron grille beneath him, acid bubbling below.

And the orderlies are grouping them up but Joker can barely see them. All he can hear is the creak-crack of the railing giving way, the crunch of his severing spine, his own underwater scream, a stream of muffled bubbles as the acid eats him alive.

If he goes back into the acid now, it’s going to take everything back. It will take everything away from him. He’ll lose it all—his colours, even his Harley—and then he’ll be alone again.

He’ll be back to being lonely again.

‘Joker.’

It’s hot water on ice. It cuts through everything at once. Batman is right there, right beside him, all around him.

Joker latches onto that thought to force himself up and into line with the other patients. He ducks out of the main hallway as soon as he can, breathing hard as he shoulders through the bathroom door.

‘Distract me,’ Joker begs, locking himself into a stall. ‘Please keep talking. Keep saying my name.’

‘The orderlies are talking about isolating Victor to his room for the day.’ It’s such a relief that Bats does what he asked without question or hesitation. ‘They’re probably right, he’s overstimulated. Take a deep breath for me. Good. Another? That’s it.’

Joker puts the toilet lid down and perches on top of it, drawing his legs up under him. The pounding between his ears is already easing up. He can get through this. He just has to keep breathing and listen to his Bat.

‘I’m downloading the Arkham intranet board,’ Batman says. ‘In case they try to bury it.’

Harley’s vented to Joker about that cesspit before. She outright refuses to use it. From what she’s told him, she even makes a point of chewing out any nurse or orderly she catches on the intranet during their shift. It makes it difficult for her to push that point when Dr. Crane himself has a habit of contributing to the threads, though.

‘Your friend, Julian? The orderlies call him Calendar Man. There’s one for Victor, too. Mr. Freeze.’ Batman’s growl takes on a colder note. ‘They think that’s funny.’

Joker just shakes his head.

‘They wouldn’t know funny if it fucked them in the ass, darling.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

It’s a crude attempt at humour. It helps, though. It gives his protective instinct something to do. Poor Victor. Joker was already endeared to him from the instant he offered to shake Joker’s hand. Not a lot of people do that, these days. But when Bats mentioned the Euralea, Joker’s endearment deepened. It had him feeling so connected to Victor so suddenly that he even started reflecting him.

‘Are you alright?’

Joker’s heart kicks like a hare. Even if it’s just for the mission—even if it’s just for now—Bats cares enough to worry about him.

‘Almost.’ Joker’s answer coasts out on a breathless giggle. ‘I’m getting there, darling.’

‘What just happened? Your blood pressure spiked. So did your pulse.’

‘What?’ Joker snaps. ‘Never seen a panic attack before?’

He can’t help but feel touchy on the subject, even when raising his voice to Batman makes him want to shuck his own skin. It’s this place. He doesn’t like how vulnerable the asylum makes him feel inside his own head, how it removes the defences between him and his worst fears.

‘Does that … happen to you often?’

‘No,’ Joker answers slowly. ‘Not since I was here last time.’

It had been when Crane tried to brute force his way into Joker’s memories, studying him like germs on a slide. Something about being in here makes Joker feel insane by proximity. And then that nurse had to go and have that name, right when Joker needed it to be nowhere near him.

‘I think I might have mirrored Victor.’ Joker rubs at his arm, embarrassment making his eyes burn. He hopes the lenses don’t give that away. ‘It won’t happen again. I can do better.’

But Batman shuts him down before he’s even finished pronouncing the last word.

‘You don’t need to take the blame. This one’s on me.’

‘You?’ Joker frowns. ‘How could it possibly be on you, love?’

He answers in a single word, his delivery grim as a graveyard.

‘Victor.’

Fortunately, one word is all Joker needs to understand his meaning.

If Batman had done a better job that night—

—Victor wouldn’t be in Arkham to begin with.

Batman breaks Joker’s heart to pieces sometimes. The poor thing carries the whole weight of the world on his shoulders, taking all of the blame and none of the credit.

Joker wishes he could take him in his arms. He’d get behind that mask—stroke his hair for him—tell him over and over that it wasn’t his fault, as many times as it takes. It makes Joker more determined than ever to see this through. Whatever’s happening in here, he’s going to get to the bottom of it, for Harley and for Batman both.

Batman left Victor damaged, but that wasn’t his fault. It was happenstance, collateral damage. And that’s where Joker shines.

All of his pranks and jokes? He designs them with one goal in mind: to soften the Dark Knight’s hard edges, to give him a headline in the Gazette that isn’t all property damage and vigilante fearmongering for once. It’s just like the kids at Victoria Station.

Joker is Batman’s damage control.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take the World’s Greatest Detective to see the orderlies have grouped them based on severity.

Joker is flattered to be matched with the softies of the bunch, assigned to the reading room with Jules and the old guy from the other table. In all honesty, he looks more like a historian than a lunatic. His glasses have thick round lenses, there’s a persistent tremor in his right hand and his hair is white with age.

Joker looks through the reading room’s shelves while Bats hacks into the Arkham data servers. Each of Arkham’s three day-rooms has a different theme, according to Harley; Joker never had the chance to see them firsthand on his initial visit in March. One is an arts and crafts room, and another is designed to be low stimulus with a wide range of sensory fidget toys. This one, the third one, is the reading room. It’s a small library allowing patients borrow one book at a time. There’s a book cart, too. The librarian orderly does a round of the rooms every week, prompting patients either to borrow or return.

It’s a cosy space, though it could use some love beyond what the lone librarian can provide. The plaster is cracked and the barred windows are sheeted with grime outside. They would need a ladder to clean them; the reading room is a floor up from the ground, looking out over the woods.

Asides from the structural damage, the librarian must be the fastidious type. There’s not a spot of dust in sight. Everything is alphabetised and grouped by genre, though there’s not much of a range. They mostly have literary classics and poetry at the upper end with early readers and picture books at the lower. Joker casts an eye over Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. He puts it back when he sees how it’s been scribbled in all the way through, notes in the margins and between some of the lines.

There’s a good breadth of classics, at least. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz must be a favourite; there are five different copies. Beyond that, there’s nothing of note besides some dog-eared vintage chillers dating back to the 1980s—Stephen King and Dean Koontz—Clive Barker and Richard Laymon.

‘Got it,’ Batman growls. ‘Arnold Wesker.’

Joker hums an attentive note, feigning interest in a book. It’s a poetry volume. There’s a cawing blackbird perched over the cover page, raked with ink like a black blotch. Grief is the Thing with Feathers, it’s called.

‘He has dissociative identity disorder. The doctors don’t think he’s dangerous. But his alter might be. He says the alter manifests through a ventriloquist’s dummy. It’s named …’

 Bats trails off before trying that sentence again, audibly perturbed.

‘The doll is named Scarface.’

Joker glances at Arnold through a gap in the books. He would never have guessed it. Arnold just looks old. His eyelids are wrinkled, he’s jowly under the chin, his nose is kind of fat and his grey teeth peep out whenever he wets his lips. His right hand is still moving in that constant tremor. For the first time, Joker recognises it for what it really is. It’s not a tremor; it’s a clench. Arnold repeats it over and over like he has his hand inside a puppet, exactly like he’s making it talk.

‘Wesker’s been institutionalised twice before. This is his third. Each time, he volunteered himself. He says the doll wants him to hold the Italian Mafia hostage. To take a chainsaw to them, actually. That’s a direct quote.’

It’s difficult to imagine Arnold even having the strength to lift a chainsaw, let alone wield one. He’s plumped up by age, not muscle. The frames on his glasses are the same grey as the roots of his hair.

‘Wonderful,’ Bats grunts. ‘And he wants to kill Batman while he’s at it.’

Well, now. That’s just not happening.

Joker would bury that crusty old fucker eight feet deep if he ever so much as laid a finger on his Bat. Hell, Joker wouldn’t even let him get close enough to try. His rabbiting heartrate must give him away because the next thing he knows, there’s an amused little huff of air coming through the inner-ear communicator.

‘You can relax,’ Batman says drily. ‘I think I can handle myself just fine against an old man and his puppet.’

Right.

Right. Of course.

Joker swallows, admonished. Batman fights like a tiger. It’s not as if he hasn’t felt it firsthand, or even seen it when he’s not on the receiving end himself— when Batman goes up against another villain and it’s all over the news and Joker can’t think about anything else for hours afterward, tight all over with jealousy and hunger.

There’s no doubt about it. Even if it was two against one counting the doll, Arnold would last all of two seconds if he and Batman ever went toe-to-toe.

And Joker knows that. He knows that. But all the same—

He still doesn’t ever want to see Arnold get the chance.

Joker goes to put the poetry book back into place. He changes his mind before it even touches the shelf. Maybe he should keep his hands on it. If nothing else, it will give him something to keep him distracted later when he’s stuck alone in his room at night with all of that possessive energy desperate for an outlet; when he inevitably starts to feel like sneaking out of his room to go sabotage Arnold’s mental health is the best idea he’s ever had, prepared to do whatever it takes to keep that doll the fuck away from Batman.

The librarian orderly smiles at Joker when he brings the book to the counter. He checks her name badge: Deepti. She’s around the same age as Harley with dark bags beneath her kind brown eyes. She’s happy enough to stamp his book slip, though she hesitates when she goes to scrawl his name in the old-fashioned list at the back.

‘Are you sure you want to start with this one?’

Joker tips his head to one side.

‘Shouldn’t I be?’

‘Poetry can cause extreme reactions,’ she cautions. Joker just grins.

‘All I have are extreme reactions.’

Deepti gives in after that. She scrawls his name in her neat handwriting and slides the book across the counter. His is the latest entry in a very short line, with just one other name before his own: Abigail Allaston, dated seven months ago.

Joker joins the other patients at the table. It’s covered in art supplies but neither of the men seem interested. Jules is fretting with his fingers, keeping them by his mouth to stop them inching up to his hairline. Arnold is half-heartedly watching a re-run of The Golden Girls, but it’s an episode about Sophia and Rose; Joker really doesn’t care unless Blanche is on-screen. The box-set television in the reading room’s top corner is the first one Joker’s seen in the building since he arrived.

Joker reaches for a blank page and a marker. Jules watches along eagerly, chewing his thumbnail.

‘Any requests, Jules?’ Joker asks, keeping his voice nice and calm.

‘You should,’ Jules stammers. ‘You sh-should make a schedule.’

‘That’s a great idea.’ Joker draws a grid with seven columns and four rows. ‘What day was the first of this month, pal?’

‘Friday.’

‘And there are 31 days in October, right?’

‘Yeah.’ Jules lowers his hand back down to the table, leaving the nail alone. He’s staring at Joker’s page like he’s under a spell. ‘31. Then 30 in November, 31 in December.’

‘I wish my memory was as good as yours.’ Joker pauses, then shakes his head. ‘Scratch that. No, I really don’t.’

He jots the numbers down into the corners of his boxes, charting out the whole month. Batman catches onto what he’s doing.

‘Clever. See if you can use any recent holidays as an anchor point. Maybe he remembers Dent.’

Great minds think alike.

‘Alrighty,’ Joker chirps, tapping the grid. ‘So Halloween is here, and we’re here.’ He hovers his marker over the 28th. ‘My calendar’s looking pretty empty right now, Jules. Are there any other holidays in October?’

Jules is more animated now, leaning over the table and tapping one of the boxes seven times.

‘This one’s Columbus Day, the 11th. And— and over here, the 24th. That’s United Nations Day.’

‘Ooh, I’ve never heard of that one before.’

Joker starts decorating the calendar with Halloween scribbles after he’s jotted the holidays down. He very deliberately puts a little bat into the box for October 26th. That’s the night Dent got taken into solitary, he knows that much from Harley. But he can’t remember the date the lawyer was sectioned here in the first place.

‘The 26th is Accession Day in India,’ Bats says, picking up what Joker’s putting down. ‘It’s obscure, but it could work.’

‘I thought I heard something about Accession Day celebrations,’ Joker muses. ‘But Jules, isn’t Accession Day in September?’

‘It is.’ Jules answers, no hesitation. Joker encourages him along with his eyes. ‘You must have hear-heard something about Indian Accession Day. That’s 26th, October 26th.’

Bingo.

‘That explains it,’ Joker says. Arnold is observing them, his head tipped toward them from the television, but Joker ignores him. ‘They were saying the celebrations were really something this year. Did the staff get anything happening for you guys?’

Jules’s fingers drift up to his face then around to the back of his head. He starts tugging out hairs, one strand after the next.

‘No celebrations. It’s always heads down, be quiet. Always heads down, be quiet.’

‘Then what did happen, Jules? C’mon, let me live a little through you.’

But already, Joker’s hopes are sinking like Jules’s falling hairs. The other man shrinks into his chair, drawing one leg up underneath himself.

‘Always heads,’ Jules says. ‘It’s always heads. Always heads.’

Joker sighs through his nose. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. He’ll have to give this one up as a bust. Maybe he can try it again later if he can gets Dent’s arrival date from Bats.

‘Here you go, buddy.’ Joker slides the schedule over to Jules. ‘Can you finish filling this in for me? You could write down the weekly dinner schedule, maybe.’

Jules zeroes in on the paper. He’s following the suggestion before he even seems to realise it, nodding along.

Joker watches half-heartedly as Jules starts filling up the squares. He writes in capitals and twists the page if he runs out of room in a box. Some of his notes end up being written in spirals, whirlpooling around like they’re circling a drain. Arnold is watching, too. After a moment of silent contemplation, he leans in a little toward Joker.

‘I’m Arnold.’

‘Hi, Arnold.’ Joker tries not to sound so tired. ‘I’m Joker.’

‘Joker, eh? Well, how d’you do.’

He talks like a history professor at a lectern, but Joker is more interested in his teeth. He wonders if they’re real or not. If they’re falsies, maybe Arnie takes them out at night. Maybe he even puts them in a glass to soak. If he does, it would be easy enough for Joker to get his hands on them. Then he’d just need something like a clock or a water pump, anything with gears, and wham. He could build himself a set of chattering teeth.

‘He’s right,’ Arnold grunts, and Joker has to rewind his train of thought. ‘There are never any celebrations ‘round here. Or were you expecting the docs to roll out the Halloween décor?’

‘First rule of comedy,’ Joker replies. ‘Expect the unexpected.’

Lillian raps her knuckles on the reading room window before sticking her head inside. Out of all the nurses, Joker likes Lillian the most. She never fully relaxes around him but she doesn’t treat him like an animal, either.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she says, looking over Joker and Arnold with a quirked brow. ‘The warden wants to see you, Joker.’

‘Ooh. Am I in trouble?’

‘I don’t think so. I think he just wants to meet you in-person.’

‘See what I mean?’ Joker says to Arnold. ‘Life is full of surprises.’

‘You’re a wise guy, eh?’

‘Nope. Just a clown and his jokes. Wanna hear one, before I go?’

‘What the hell.’ Arnold leans back in his chair, looking at Joker expectantly. ‘Go on.’

Lillian gives a little sigh. She goes back to her clipboard, leaning herself against the doorframe. Then she waves a hand at Joker as if to say, go on, make it quick.

‘What’s the difference,’ Joker says, ‘between an asylum and a church?’

The beginnings of a smile appear at the corners of Arnold’s drooping mouth.

‘Tell me.’

‘A church is where you go to talk to God. An asylum is where you go if God starts talking back.’

Deepti snorts at the librarian’s desk. From the doorway, Lillian clucks her tongue in disapproval. It’s Arnold who gives Joker a proper laugh. It’s the deep kind, right down from the belly. But it’s not the kind of laugh that makes Joker feel any kind of gratification. When Arnold laughs, the motion of his jaw suddenly seems ventriloquial itself. It’s a wooden gesture repeating in precise up-and-down motions exactly like a puppet’s would. And there’s nothing satisfying about that.

There’s nothing satisfying about that at all.

Chapter Text

They don’t take him to an interview room this time. Instead, they bring him to the warden’s office, proper and plush with a leather couch and a ticking grandfather clock. Joker reads the plaque on the psychiatrist’s desk.

JERVIS TETCH
M.Med MBBS PhD

The warden doesn’t look like a warden or even much like a doctor at all. He’s not wearing one of the white coats Joker’s grown used to seeing on Harley. Instead, he wears a checkered maroon suit in a regency style, accentuated by a black pocket square and bow-tie. He’s handsome, too. Especially in the eyes. They’re deep brown and dreamy, matching the roguish brown hair reaching down to his shoulders. He sports a neat but whiskery goatee.

Dr. Tetch checks his gold-chained pocket watch with clear approval.

‘You’re right on time, Mr. Joker.’

It comes out friendly enough, if a little bit slow. Joker wasn’t expecting such a thick southern drawl.

‘Please,’ he protests, waving him off. ‘Just Joker is fine. Mr. Joker was my father.’

‘Glad to see your sense of humour’s intact.’

Tetch uncaps his fountain pen to write the day’s date at the top of his ledger in tight calligraphy. Joker takes the chance to get a better look about the office. The walls are panelled with dark wood, matching the mahogany leather couch. The murky colour swallows the light from the brass wall sconces.

The grandfather clock is the hero of the room. It stands tall in one corner, announcing each passing second with resonant ticks. Leaden circles dissolving in the air, Joker remembers out of nowhere. Where is that from? Mrs. Dalloway, isn’t it?

‘You’re not in any trouble, Joker. Though there’s no denying you’ve come to us in unusual circumstances.’

They’re heading into dangerous waters, but Joker doesn’t mind. He’s just relieved that Tetch didn’t ignore his request out of hand like Dr. Crane.

‘Personally delivered by the Batman himself.’ There’s a distinctly anxious edge to Tetch’s smile. ‘Why might you suppose that is?’

‘It’s obvious,’ Joker grins. ‘He’s obsessed with me.’

‘Keep dreaming,’ Batman growls, at the same time that Tetch gives a half-hearted chuckle.

‘Perhaps so.’

Tetch looks him over with something halfway between intrigue and approval, though he looks away before long. Those dreamy brown eyes rove toward the grandfather clock.

‘I can’t recall Batman ever having made such a personal study before of one of his rogues.’

Joker glances toward the clock, too. There’s a little hutch above the clockface as if it’s hiding a cuckoo. Half the day is gone already; it’s almost 2 o’clock.

‘Didn’t he tell you?’ Joker feigns surprise. ‘I’m his favourite.’

‘I can see why,’ Tetch chuckles. ‘You’ve charmed Gotham well enough. Why not Gotham’s protector to match?’

Joker preens. He loves the idea. It used to just be a fantasy, but now he’s filled to the brim with hope. It’s a fluttery feeling, almost like vertigo, and it’s been hitting him in waves ever since Batman kissed him. He can deny it all he likes. Joker knows the truth.

Batman wants him.

‘Though, I will admit,’ Tetch says. ‘I’m curious. Last time you were here, you broke free after barely more’n a day. Yet you willingly walk through our doors at Batman’s behest.’

The doctor hesitates, tipping his head to one side. There’s a distracted look on his face like he’s listening for a distant noise. It takes a moment before the spell breaks, and Tetch asks his next question.

‘May I be candid a moment?’

It’s as good as rhetorical. Joker sees right through it. It’s an attempt to make him feel like he has some amount of control in the room.

‘Of course,’ Joker replies, playing along.

‘Are you being coerced?’

‘God no,’ Joker snorts. ‘Nobody tells me what to do. Barely even me.’

‘Then why are you here?’

Hwhy. Joker’s always liked what southern accents do to words like that. Hwhat, hwhere.

‘You clearly don’t want to be,’ Tetch continues. ‘And yet … here y’are.’

‘Careful,’ Batman warns.

They’re on the same page. Joker ignored his warning earlier in the cafeteria. He’s not about to make that mistake again.

‘How many psychiatrists,’ Joker asks, ‘does it take to change a lightbulb?’

Tetch’s eyes dart again to the grandfather clock. Joker fights not to let his annoyance show. It’s a wonder why he even pulled Joker in with him if he’s really this nervous. It hurts his feelings enough that Joker makes himself a promise: when the time comes, he’s going after this grandfather clock’s spring in particular.

‘Just one,’ Joker says. ‘But the lightbulb has to really want to change.’

Tetch frowns.

‘Are you the lightbulb in this metaphor or the change?’

‘Maybe I’m the psychiatrist. Then you’d really be in trouble.’

‘Ha.’

Tetch writes something down in looping cursive. Joker’s glad to see him take the bait. The doctor can waste his time theorising about Joker’s morphing psyche for as long as he likes.

‘Here’s one,’ Tetch drawls, leaning back in his leather chair. ‘Stop me if you’ve heard it before. A man walks into a psychiatrist’s office. He says, doctor, I think I have short-term memory loss. So the psychiatrist asks, how long have you had this short-term memory loss? And the man says—’

‘As long as I can remember!’

It bursts out of Joker before he can bite it down. Tetch flinches, glancing tellingly at Joker’s teeth. Suddenly, Joker feels like a dog that just got put out in the cold. All anyone ever sees in him is a monster, everyone but Bats.

Tetch adjusts one of the paperweights on his desk. It’s a little antique metronome made from walnut wood with a brass ticker. The doctor fiddles with it for longer than necessary.

‘You have memory problems of your own, don’t you? Amnesia, if I’m informed correctly.’

‘Amnesia?’ Joker gasps theatrically. ‘Who do you think I am?’

Tetch gives a forced smile.

‘Y’know any others?’

‘You tell me. I just can’t seem to remember.’

‘What can you remember?’

‘Oh, every moment of my life.’

‘Up to a point?’

‘Nope! Exactly what I said. Every moment of my life.’

Joker crosses his ankles, folding his hands politely in his lap. Tetch watches him with a critical gaze. Joker bites his lip to hold back a laugh. In his suit and bow tie, Tetch is about one top hat away from owning a Virginian tobacco plantation.

‘And when did that life begin?’

Joker beams. His Cheshire smile doesn’t feel so pained all of a sudden, pure euphoria buried deep in each of his razor-sharp teeth.

Sure, maybe he’s a little unhinged. And maybe it’s always going to hurt when people treat him like a monster. But that’s fine. He’s exactly the way he’s supposed to be. The vat didn’t make any mistakes when it remade him, not a single one.

‘Now you’re asking the right questions, doc.’

‘The right questions are only as good as the right answers.’ Tetch’s eyebrows inch up. ‘Should I repeat the question?’

‘No need,’ Joker chirps, closing the conversation in his head. ‘I’d like to keep some of my mysteries intact. You understand.’

It’s the first thing Joker’s said that’s managed to make Tetch properly laugh. It’s not just a chuckle or a quick inhale this time but a sharp guffaw—distinctly southern—vaguely cruel.

‘All too well, Mr. Joker,’ Tetch smirks, and Joker’s heart sinks. ‘All too well.’

Chapter Text

Stepping out of the warden’s office, Joker just wants this over and done with.

He’s remembering why he doesn’t like Harley working here. There’s a creepy aura around the staff, and the way they talk to their patients—him, primarily—makes Joker feel like they’re just experimenting. They carry out their interviews the same way they’d come at a Rubik’s cube without a guide, twisting sides at random and hoping for the best.

That’s why Joker stops in his tracks when he sees Valentin Flamenco moving through the hallways.

‘Hello,’ Joker says to himself, watching. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Until now, Joker’s only seen the convicted cannibal when he’s part of his trio. The Blackgate referrals in the building group together every chance they get, moving in a pack: Flamingo, Killer Croc and the third one who Batman didn’t give Joker a read on. Joker would bet his favourite coat that he’s a convict, too.

Flamenco keeps his hands behind his back when he walks. Joker doubles back on his own path, keeping him in his vision. Somehow, he doesn’t imagine he’ll get many other chances to get Valentin Flamenco alone.

Now that Joker’s behind the other man, he can see there’s nothing in his hands. All the same, a nurse swallows when she passes Flamenco in the hall. She repositions her clipboard, holding it to her chest like she’s bracing herself for an attack. Flamenco pouts his lips at her in a kiss.

Flamenco slips down one of the side halls a moment later, and Joker realises where he is. The night nurse brought him this way the first time he was admitted. Flamenco just went into the showers. Better yet, he went into the showers alone.

It’s a good opportunity, even though it’s not exactly a smart one.

‘What are you planning?’ Batman growls.

Joker ignores him, thinking hard. He can only see one option forward. He’s tried the easy route already with Jules and Victor and it got him nowhere. It’s time to up the ante.

Still, the idea makes him cringe inside. Flamenco has a sprinter’s build, dark-eyed and lean in the shoulders with a soul patch muddying his face. He’s really not Joker’s type. But then, Joker’s always had a good imagination. He can make it work.

‘Bats,’ he says under his breath. ‘I know you’ll be watching because you want to make sure I’m safe, sweetheart. But do me a favour and just don’t say anything for a bit. I’m not exactly proud of what I’m about to do.’

‘How worried should I be?’

‘You tell me.’ Joker pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m about to seduce a cannibal.’

Batman says nothing.

‘Mm, I knew that would shut you up.’ Joker walks briskly toward the showers before he can change his mind, shaking his hands out to psych himself up. ‘Try to enjoy the show, love.’

He’s faltering in his stride before he even reaches the door, though. Bats hasn’t said a word, but Joker can tell he’s still listening. The dust over the inner-ear communicator is buzzing in his head like tinnitus.

‘Darling?’ Joker fights to keep his voice even. ‘I just need you to know. Whatever I say in here, it’s just … part of the act.’

‘I know.’

Batman says it immediately, no hesitation. Joker can finally breathe again, knowing Bats understands what this is. It’s just a performance. Field reconnaissance, the only way Joker knows how.

Flamenco’s on him the instant he’s through the bathroom door, crashing into Joker like an ambush. Arkham has never felt as much like a prison as it does with Flamenco slamming him against the tiled wall. He looks exactly like a cartel Don in his faded grey jumpsuit. The bone of his arm is sharp against Joker’s throat even through his padded sleeve, digging under Joker’s jugular like a makeshift shank.

‘Following me, huh?’ Flamenco practically snarls it, pressing harder against Joker’s throat. ‘What for?’

‘Maybe I just wanted to use the bathroom,’ Joker suggests.

It’s an uncomfortable position. He’s glad Flamenco isn’t using his hands to choke him instead. Those nails look long enough to slice right through his skin.

‘What,’ Flamenco glowers, grip unyielding. ‘Never heard of waiting for your turn?’

Joker clicks his tongue.

‘Now, where’s the fun in that?’

Slowly, Joker brings one hand up to Flamenco’s arm. Flamenco’s dark eyes dart over at the motion, his lips peeling back in warning. But Joker doesn’t try to pry his arm away or push him back. All he does is run one finger along Flamenco’s wrist. The tendon along the other man’s bicep shudders at the touch.

‘There’s really no need to be so tense, baby.’ Joker gives him a sweet smile. ‘There’s more than one reason why someone would want to get you alone.’

A little crease is forming between Flamenco’s thick eyebrows. The pressure against Joker’s throat doesn’t disappear entirely, but it eases enough that Joker can tell this is working. He knows this part and he knows it well—when trepidation starts giving way to curiosity—the moment when a man starts to wonder. It’s written all over Flamenco’s face. His eyes are locked on Joker’s wandering hands. Then he swallows, and just like that, Joker knows he’s got him.

Oh, yes. This is working just fine.

‘You got a joke for me, payasa?’

‘I can think of a few,’ Joker hums. Bless him, he’s still trying to act tough. ‘How does a cannibal say hello?’

‘How?’

‘He offers you a handshake.’

Joker walks his fingers up Flamenco’s arm. The other man breaks eye contact to glance down. Then Flamenco does it again, his eyes lingering on Joker’s fingers for longer this time. He licks his lips.

‘You look so hungry,’ Joker breathes against his ear. ‘It breaks my heart, baby. Why don’t we help each other? Show me a good time and I’ll let you have a nibble.’

‘Let me,’ Flamenco scoffs. ‘You think I’d give you a choice?’

Joker tips his head to one side with a smile.

‘You’re cute,’ he says. ‘Know your place and we won’t have a problem.’

The bathroom is a study in desolation, clinical tiles radiating the chill. There’s a row of unoccupied toilet stalls behind them. It’s stark and it’s clinical, and it’s the best place Joker could ask for to be doing this. He’s no stranger to stumbling into toilets wrapped around a stranger. And Flamenco can’t be entirely opposed, either, because he’s all too quick to go in for Joker’s neck until the clown holds him firmly at bay by the shoulders.

‘Ah-ah,’ Joker chastises. ‘Not until I get what I want. Then you can chew on me all you like.’

Flamenco turns wary, spurned by the rejection.

‘You’ve been in Arkham before,’ he sneers. ‘You broke out, they say. Why are you back?’

‘Mm, research. I’m working on a comedy routine about Gotham’s favourite D.A., but I just can’t seem to track him down.’

‘Dent?’ Flamenco frowns. ‘He got sent down to solitary.’

Joker groans, acting like he didn’t already know.

‘What a waste of time.’ He shakes his head morosely, patting Flamenco on the shoulder as he eases from the other man’s grasp. ‘Thanks for the tip, tiger. I’ll be thinking of you when I break out this time.’

‘Wait,’ Flamenco blurts, catching him by the hand before he can get too far. ‘Let me help.’

There we go, right on cue.

Maybe Joker made a good impression already and Flamenco doesn’t want to lose his new chew toy. Then again, maybe the Flamingo just wants Joker’s blood pumping with excitement before he chomps down. It hardly matters. Flamenco is falling for the act hook, line and sinker.

‘You saw him?’ Joker asks, Flamenco pulling him back into an embrace.

Flamenco nods slowly, eyes blown.

Joker presses up against him, eliminating all the space between them. He runs his hands up to Flamenco’s shoulders— brings their mouths so close together, it’s practically a kiss. It might be psychosomatic but Joker swears he can smell the blood on Flamenco’s breath. It’s an olfactory afterimage, as if the ghosts of this man’s victims are with them now in the asylum bathroom. Joker lets their lips brush.

‘Tell me everything.’

‘He’s a screamer.’ Flamenco’s turning red at the neck even when Joker slips back again, denying him a proper kiss. ‘You could hear him all through the building.’

He’s feeling Joker up while he talks, measuring every inch with his fingers. Joker doesn’t stop him, even when he slides his way inside Joker’s jumpsuit through his collar. It pulls the jumpsuit partway down Joker’s shoulder. Flamenco looks at the new skin like it’s a personal feast.

Fuck …

Joker can’t deny what the raw heat of the attention does to him. It’s nothing to do with the man himself and everything to do with his searching touches, his low snarl.

Flamenco fans his hands out across Joker’s sternum and the top of his ribcage. His hands are earthy, tough, the fingertips scarred like broken leather where he’s burned them away. Joker shudders out a gasp when they scratch across his nipples. It sends a spike of arousal curling under his stomach. Flamenco smirks at the sound.

‘Like that, payasa?’

‘Keep him talking,’ Batman growls.

The only audience Joker has ever cared about just put in a request, and Joker’s heart lurches with dread and desperation to hear it. Batman is listening. He’s watching every moment, paying attention to him.

Anything, Joker thinks, feeling like his mind is on fire. I’ll do anything for you so long as you watch.

Joker grabs Flamenco by the waist, giving his sluttiest moan as he pulls him close.

‘Everything, I said. Tell me what happened next.’

Flamenco’s hard, it’s obvious. Joker can feel the pressure of it jutting at the top of his pelvis. He’s cocky and untucked, making no attempt to hide the way his erection curls up toward Joker like a demand or an order. He lets Joker pull him closer before he takes back control—at least, the illusion of it—hitching one of Joker’s legs around his waist so he can crush him to the wall. Then he grinds against him, just like that. It’s heady, even through their jumpsuits. It makes Joker flare inside with reciprocated arousal. He hides his face in Flamenco’s shoulder, heart racing, hips desperately trembling for more.

‘It got better at one point,’ Flamenco rasps. ‘We didn’t hear him for a while. Figured he must have had a breakthrough, something like that. Then Desmond relapsed. And when he came back from seeing Crane, he told us they’d just soundproofed the room.’

Batman quickly pulls up a record on Roland Desmond in the edge of Joker’s vision. He’s a referral from Blackgate Penitentiary, six years into a 28-year sentence. They originally shifted him to Arkham because of Venom psychosis; he manslaughtered his brother while under the influence of the strength-enhancing steroid.

Same as Bane, Joker thinks blearily.

It’s hard to hold onto the thought with Flamenco trying to get his hands under Joker’s waistband. He grinds a thigh between the other man’s legs to distract him— Flamenco may be hard, but Joker sure isn’t, and the last thing he wants is for the cannibal to notice.

‘They fixed it up real nice,’ Flamenco groans, grinding on Joker’s leg. ‘But Des says you can still see the shapes on the walls.’

Joker still remembers how the shadows came alive on that first night. They’d loomed behind Joker like a killer, breathing down his neck, one and the same with those shapes on the walls.

‘Like ink blots,’ Joker murmurs into Flamenco’s neck. He feels the other man swallow, his Adam’s apple shifting beneath Joker’s tongue.

The bathroom they’re in together now is a different picture entirely from that eerie interview room. The seamless grid of neat little tiles, the chipped sinks and grey mirrors reflecting Flamenco’s profile while he ruts against Joker— it’s like a different building entirely.

‘Dent wasn’t getting better. We found that out the night before you got here, when he broke out of his cuffs. Got his hands on a coin. A quarter or something. Fuck knows where he was hiding it. But he’d been using it to wear down one of the links in the chain.’

Flamenco scowls like he’s mad he didn’t think of it himself, but Joker doesn’t want him thinking critically. He’s quick to lick along Flamenco’s neck in a diversionary tactic. He tastes masculine and feral where the hollow of his throat is beading with sweat, mineral salt making Joker salivate. Flamenco’s sweat smells like the moment after a heater comes on, that moment when the dust in the ducts turns hot enough to burn.

‘Warden set off the alarms,’ Flamenco groans. His hips roll against Joker’s, keeping him pinned to the wall. ‘Called in every guard in case it got messy. We all saw what he did in that courtroom.’

‘You did?’

That’s a surprise. Joker would have thought the orderlies and doctors would restrict access to something like that. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing asylum patients should be able to see.

‘Orderlies didn’t change the channel fast enough in the reading room.’ Flamenco’s eyes flash quickly with something unhinged. ‘I like how Dent went right for the throat.’

Flamenco hitches his legs up higher, wrapping them around himself. His muscles tremble at the effort, barely strong enough to make it work. It’s still sexy enough to make Joker’s insides purr. He loves when another man takes all of his weight. He loves it when they think they have the upper hand on him just because they’re bigger.

Flamenco licks Joker’s neck right to the shell of his ear. His ragged breathing is the only thing Joker can make out, rattling with desire.

‘He’s been in solitary ever since. Orderlies won’t say when he’s coming out.’

‘You sound disappointed,’ Joker teases, wrapping his arms around Flamenco’s shoulders. ‘Do you miss him?’

Flamenco’s answering laugh is brief and cold.

‘Miss? No, I don’t miss. I have friends in Blackgate because of that man. Trust me, payasa, when I get my hands on him? No way am I going to miss.’

‘You’re making me jealous, baby. I hope you’re saving some of that passion for me.’

Joker goes in for a kiss but Flamenco interrupts him, nudging his head back. It forces Joker to make eye contact.

‘Was that enough?’ Flamenco demands.

‘Enough?’ Joker blinks at him coquettishly. ‘Whatever could you mean?’

Flamenco shifts a little, one hand moving to the walls to take some of their weight. It’s slippery from the heat between them. He’s grimacing. Joker knows that expression: restlessness and embarrassment in equal measure.

‘You promised,’ Flamenco reminds him. ‘C’mon.’

Joker can’t help teasing just a little more.

‘Say the magic word.’

Flamenco’s nostrils flare. He’s furious, it’s easy to see. It can’t be an easy thing to take— getting emasculated by the feminine jester he’s halfway to fucking in the bathroom of a mental hospital. He kisses Joker hard and sudden, threatening his scarred bottom lip with sharp incisors. Then he pulls back and rumbles an answer in rolling Spanish.

‘Por favor, guasón.’

Joker tilts his head in permission. Flamenco doesn’t hesitate. His jaws open like an animal’s, a fierce snarl slipping out of him before he bites down hard on Joker’s neck. It’s the smell that hits Joker instead of the pain. The chemicals living in his blood are almost pharmaceutical, a sharp industrial tang to them like bleach or glyphosate.

They were probably aiming for tranquillity in the bathroom’s colour scheme, with its teal tiles and beige grout. It’s difficult to keep that in mind when Flamenco spits a mouthful of Joker’s blood onto the bathroom floor. His face twists in disgust. The crimson splatter seems brutally hostile against the washed-out porcelain. It’s almost gelatinous.

‘What a waste.’ Joker feigns hurt. ‘Is the flavour not to your liking?’

‘You’re like battery acid,’ Flamenco seethes.

‘Lucky me, I guess I’m safe from you.’

‘Nobody’s safe.’

It comes out in a dark rattle, a sudden resonant baritone. It’s like Joker’s very molecules slow down to listen. Oh. He didn’t know Flamenco’s voice could get that low, so sonorous it’s like it’s vibrating, practically tactile. Oh, fuck …

Flamenco’s on him like a man possessed, picking Joker up by the thighs and pressing him hard against his chest. His growl keeps Joker under a spell. He doesn’t put up any resistance when Flamenco walks him a few steps further into the bathroom, like a predator pulling a prey into his lair. He crashes Joker against the side of the stalls so hard it knocks him breathless, or maybe that’s just what that deep rattling snarl does to him. He’s made it harder for Joker to get away: they’re further from the door.

‘I like a challenge,’ Flamenco growls against his bleeding bite. ‘I’d make you taste divine. Leave you to marinate, fix you.’

Joker screws his eyes shut. That low register comes out in a steady thrum, so deep it’s dangerous. It almost makes Flamenco sound like— like—

‘Pair me up with a nice Chianti,’ Joker chokes out.

‘More like a cabernet merlot from the year you were born. I’d eat you in Paris. Hide your bones in the catacombs while I can still taste you on my teeth.’

Joker’s excited even though he knows he shouldn’t be. It’s the threat, the attention. It’s bittersweet, because deep down Joker doesn’t really want this, even though he very much does.

He can’t help himself. He closes his eyes and lets himself imagine.

Imagine Flamenco’s shoulders are broader, his jawline more square.

Imagine that instead of that rolling accent, he’s hearing his darling’s voice modulator.

It’s instantly better with his eyes shut, when Joker can’t see anything but black. God. Sex is always best when it’s right after he and Batman fight—when Joker gets away and bee-lines straight for a nightclub, desperate to be kissed—because that’s when Joker can still feel him. Batman’s right there in the bruises deep beneath Joker’s skin. He’s there in the dizzy feeling from exhaustion and adrenaline, mixing together until his mania’s made all sleepy and warm. But most of all, it’s because that’s when Joker can still catch the smell of him.

Fading cologne and river stones.

It follows Joker after, always does; ephemeral like a ghost. Joker likes lust best when it’s wrapped in that smell, nothing in his head but heat, desperation and darling, darling, darling.

Flamenco’s getting rougher with him. The moment he starts digging his nails in hard is the exact moment Joker stops being able to feel it. He watches his own flesh depress under Flamenco’s fingers with a kind of surreal detachment. It’s like Flamenco stepped away, even though he’s still right there. It leaves all the burning desire inside Joker with nowhere to go. He lets out a frustrated groan.

‘Want your dick in my hand,’ Joker snaps, just wanting to get this over and done with. ‘You make me so fucking horny. Keep talking, let me get you off.’

He has to twist his arm to reach Flamenco’s buttons, to the point where he can feel his elbow threatening to slip. Joker ignores it. He tugs open the jumpsuit and pulls Flamenco’s cock free from his underwear. It’s such a distinct feeling, hot and thick in Joker’s hand, the scruff of his pubic hair scratching when he pumps to the base.

It doesn’t matter that Flamenco’s average in size. God, Joker doesn’t care right now. He’s uncircumcised and throbbing, hard cock already drooling at the head.

The meaning of trust is two cannibals giving each other blowjobs, Joker thinks, but the joke goes unsaid. He’s too horny to get it to move from his hindbrain to his mouth. There’s no helping it: Joker’s breath and better judgement are always going to shudder out of him the instant he has a warm, wanting length in his hand.

Joker needs this to be done. He strips Flamenco’s cock, tugging him off in long wet pulls. Flamenco isn’t going to last long with Joker’s hand around him. They never do.

‘Tighter.’ Flamenco hisses out a curse word in Spanish. ‘Cabrón, tighter—’

‘I know,’ Joker rasps right against his ear, making his voice breathy and high. ‘I can tell just how you like it. Let me make it good for you, baby. You do that, and I’ll lick your come off my fingers while you watch.’

And Joker swears he hears that intake of breath in dual audio, once from Flamenco and once from— once f-from—

Joker moans, the first real one since he walked into the bathroom. He can’t hold it in. He wants this to be Bats so fucking bad. Bats bucking against his palm, Bats breathing hot and wet against his throat, Bats urging him along. Just the thought is enough to collapse Joker’s common sense altogether. His cock gets hard so fast that it leaves him dizzy, gasping for air.

‘I wish I was with you somewhere nice and quiet,’ Joker begs. It’s not Flamenco that he’s talking to. ‘I would crawl into your lap and make you growl out my name. You could do anything to me and I would thank you for it.’

It’s an accident when Joker meets his own glistening green eyes in the mirror. It’s because Flamenco’s shoving him hard against the stalls, and Joker’s options are either to turn his head or have the back of his skull cracked open. He wishes he’d taken the latter when he sees a single tear roll down his own face.

Who does he think he’s kidding? This is best he’s ever going to get. Monsters like him don’t make love, they fuck. Joker doesn’t deserve any better. But even with all the heartache and loneliness destroying him inside, he can’t stop himself from leaning toward Batman like a sunflower to the light. There’s no question about it at all.

Joker would trade all this in a heartbeat just for one more kiss in Batman’s car.

‘Joker,’ Batman growls. ‘You’re about to have company. The orderlies just clocked that you’re missing.’

It drags Joker back to reality like a cold shower, giving him vertigo from how quickly his stomach drops. He doesn’t have time to get out of here so he freezes in place instead, tipping his head as he pretends to listen out.

‘Wait,’ Joker whispers. ‘Did you hear that?’

Flamenco frowns.

‘Hear what?’

‘Someone’s coming.’

Then Joker uses the stall behind him like a springboard to shove Flamenco away.

The other man goes sprawling down to the tiles with a hiss. Joker throws himself behind the bathroom door, hunkering behind the wastebin a moment before the bathroom door bursts open around two orderlies.

Their crisp white uniforms are shockingly bright, name badges gleaming dully under the fluorescents. One of them makes a noise of disgust straight away. It takes his partner a moment to realise what he’s walked into: Valentin Flamenco with his hard cock poking through the hole in his jumpsuit, laying on the muted bathroom tiles a few feet from a spatter of blood. Flamenco’s mouth opens and closes, momentarily stunned.

‘Jesus, Flamingo,’ an orderly swears. ‘Would you put your fucking dick away?’

Joker creeps behind them while they’re distracted, careful to stay out of the mirrors’ reflections as he slips through the door. The hallway is empty but he still moves silently another four paces before he starts jogging. The institutional white walls stretch in both directions, simple and sterile compared to the mess in Joker’s mind. He doesn’t stop until he hits the nearest corner, pressing himself against its other side.

Batman doesn’t say a word, silent like the grave. Joker can’t tell if he’s even there.

He flounders for something to say, nerves rearing now that he’s out of the heat of the moment. Did Flamenco’s information help them at all or was Joker just wasting Batman’s time? Did he go too far?

Did he not go far enough?

‘Darling,’ Joker murmurs, still catching his breath. ‘Did you get all of that?’

There’s no response.

The weight of the radio silence hangs heavily in the imagined space between them. It has Joker’s heart sinking like a stone through icy water. He nods once, accepting the silence. It’s his own fault, after all.

Joker starts the lonely walk back to his room.

Chapter Text

The Manor has its own historical records on Arkham’s history. The floor plans are the most useful—an extensive collection of blueprints charting the building’s changes through time—as are the letters between Arkham’s various wardens and three generations of Wayne patriarchs. Bruce pores through all of it with cotton gloves, refamiliarising himself with the asylum’s past.

Arkham is a specialised facility these days, and not one with a large capacity. It housed as many as 200 patients in the mid-1800s under the wardenship of its namesake, Amadeus Arkham. That role moved down to Arkham’s nephew Jeremiah in 1902.

Bruce grimaces as he reads over one letter from Jeremiah Arkham to Bruce’s own great-grandfather. It’s dated not long before that initial closure.

Arkham Asylum
Gotham City
October 7, 1909

Dear Mr. Wayne—May this missive find you in high spirits & serve to acquaint you with the indelible progress of our facility in large part facilitated by your ongoing financial patronage. Electroconvulsive therapy has now been properly administered to more than 90 of our charges yielding remarkable results & a noted reduction in unruly episodes particularly when administered alongside opiates and morphine. In consonance with our previous discourse the introduction of mandated hydrotherapy as a calming measure has surpassed the 200-session milestone & has proven efficacious in pacifying the unreasonable currents & temperaments among our inmate populace. These strategic applications have positioned Arkham as an institution of distinction remaining steadfast in our resolve not only to facilitate a safer Gotham but a safer America.

With heartfelt appreciation to your most invaluable partnership,
Jeremiah Arkham

Bruce shakes his head as he sets the letter back in place beside the news clippings. From 1910—UNUSUAL TREATMENT OF ARKHAM INMATES REVEALED—then in 1938, FROM MADHOUSE TO WAR REFUGE: SECOND LIFE FOR ARKHAM AS EMERGENCY HOSPITAL. It wasn’t until the 1950s that the facility seemed closed for good. NATIONWIDE UPROAR AS PATIENTS TREATED LIKE CRIMINALS; PROTEST AT HOSPITAL DOORS SEES THOUSANDS OUTRAGED; GOVERNOR PROMISES HEALTH REFORM AS ASYLUM CLOSES SHOP.

Arkham only reopened as a psychiatric hospital after Thomas Wayne bought the estate in 1986. Bruce was born in 1987, the same year reconstruction commenced.

Some of his earliest family pictures are from the edges of the Arkham construction zone, Martha bringing Bruce along in a baby sling to help encourage Thomas through long days on-site. Bruce is a wide-eyed baby in the pictures, clinging to his mom tightly even as he twists in her arms to watch his surroundings. It’s hard to stomach those pictures of his parents now without spiralling to his memories of their final pictures.

Bruce looks tiredly toward Joker for a break from the grief. He’s glad the psychiatric hospital is the Arkham his father built, and not the one built by the generations of Wayne patriarchs before him. It’s a relief that Joker will never have to see that Arkham. Bruce can protect him from that much, at least.

For his part, Joker’s sitting pretty in his room, engrossed in the book he borrowed. He’s splayed out across his bed with his stomach to the sheets, kicking his legs behind him. Bruce puffs out a chuckle to see it.

He’s glad to see that his extra funding into Arkham has been put to good use. It’s a nice place. It could pass for a cheap hotel room rather than an in-patient ward in a psychiatric hospital. The floors are carpeted instead of linoleum; the walls are a calming seashell white. Their faint coral undertone is easier to make out with the fading sunset coming in through the room’s fixed window. A comfortable armchair looks out over the forestry through impact-resistant glass.

There’s still an observation window next to the automated door. There are no fixtures to the room, either—no ceiling fan, curtains or blinds—nothing that could give patients the chance to abscond or harm themselves. But it’s still nice. Cosy, even.

Those refurbishments were worth every penny when Bruce saw Joker relax the moment he got back to his room. He’d leaned against the door from the inside, letting out a long exhale as his shoulders finally lost some of their tension. Bruce has stayed quiet since, giving Joker at least the illusion of privacy. The doctors have already put him through his paces right from day one.

And if that gives Bruce an excuse to leave the microphone off after what happened in the bathroom, well. That’s between him and the bats.

Their high-pitched chirps echo from deeper into the cave. It’s more aggressive than usual. Local colonies must be adapting to changing temperatures along the coast; their mating season kicks in through the fall months now, the bats no longer holding off until the springtime to breed.

Reproductive season for bats. Bruce is well-aware of the irony. Maybe that’s why I can’t get him out of my head.

Joker turns the page in duplicate on-screen: once in the greyscale security feed from the corner of his room and once in the point-of-view feed from Lucius’s lenses. Bruce half-heartedly reads a few lines before giving up again.

He tried reading along with Joker when he first started, but he’s never been any good with literary fiction. He’s not the target audience. The unconventional spacing choices, the formatting quirks and intertextual references— Bruce just doesn’t get it, whatever that means.

It doesn’t make it any easier that the book Joker borrowed hits too close to home. He should have guessed it would from the title: Grief is the Thing with Feathers. He’s not sure why it took him by surprise when the book opened with a study of a man and his young sons, bereaved after the accidental death of his wife and their mother.

Four or five days after she died, the book begins, I sat alone in the living room wondering what to do. Shuffling around, waiting for shock to give way, waiting for any kind of structured feeling to emerge from the organisational fakery of my days.

Bruce could have written that description himself. He remembers that stage so well he might as well still be in it, that directionless feeling making it difficult to tell where one day ended and the next began. He doesn’t need a reminder of what it feels like to lose a mother. Bruce has lived with that feeling ever since he was 11 years old.

‘Focus,’ Bruce mutters, wrenching his attention back from the supercomputer screens.

He locks his attention on the archival maps again. The original Arkham design from the 1800s is a world away from the facility on his screens now. Its historical floorplans are a relic preserved to museum standard, hand drawn on heavyweight linen fibre paper. The ink has aged to sepia, even with the pages layered with archival tissue. The blueprints from the most recent renovations seem fresh from the printer by comparison, white architectural drawings on cyanotype blue.

It spells out the alterations Thomas Wayne started and Bruce himself finished. The cell blocks were removed and replaced with larger bedrooms. Lobotomy and electro-convulsive therapy chambers were knocked down to make room for occupational therapist offices and day rooms, designed to give patients a place to learn independent life skills.

Bruce flips between the latest blueprints, noting the Arkham camera positions so he can map out their blind spots. So far, they’re nothing exploitable. There’s a black spot right behind the pillars at the main entrance—another in the left-back corner of the visiting lounge—and a third one over the void behind the main stairwell.

The bigger problem is the rooms without camera coverage to begin with.

Arkham isn’t a prison. There are cameras covering the bathroom doors but none actually inside. The procedure rooms give patients their privacy, too. There are panic alarms hidden under the desks in case of emergency.

The worst black spots are there thanks to the historical society. The Arkham lighthouse is heritage protected, meaning they aren’t allowed to drill into the bricks to embed any cables. It means they can’t have security cameras anywhere in the lighthouse without leaving the power cords exposed. After the third time a patient found a way to cut them, security just stopped trying. It leaves Bruce blind to the upper section of the lighthouse, as well as the solitary confinement ward in the sub-basement beneath it. That makes Bruce want to take a mental health holiday of his own. The one place he really needs to be able to see, inaccessible because of red tape.

‘Are you there?’

Joker says it while rolling onto his side to face into the wall. It hides the motion of his lips from the security camera in the corner. His voice is a gentle murmur, and Bruce’s own breath shivers to hear it so clearly in the otherwise quiet of the cave, Joker all husky and low and entirely for him. It makes him glad his microphone is switched off. It stops him giving himself away.

Bruce wipes a hand down his face before he activates the microphone.

‘Yeah.’

The lens feed shows Joker’s point of view on screen as he fiddles with the corners of his book.

‘I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’

‘You didn’t,’ Bruce grunts.

What makes him uncomfortable is how quickly he lost his common sense when Joker started talking dirty, how irresistible that was to him. It took no time at all for Bruce to have a hand at his waistband, ready to slip it down into his briefs and curl it around his aching length. He has no idea what to do with that information— how desperately, stupidly ready he was to tug himself off in time with Joker’s hand on another man’s cock.

It was only that lonely look Joker gave himself in the mirror that woke Bruce up. Another moment, and he’d have missed the approaching orderlies entirely.

Bruce lets out a sigh through his nose.

‘We don’t have to talk about it.’

‘Okay,’ Joker agrees, nodding eagerly. ‘Whatever you like, darling.’

God. That shouldn’t do anything for him. It shouldn’t send a chill of want down Bruce’s spine, the way Joker’s still calling him darling like nothing has changed between them. It shouldn’t.

Bruce is meant to be focussing. He’s meant to be taking the clues they’ve already uncovered and piecing them together. Harvey’s sanity is on the line.

Everything Flamenco said described a face of Harvey Bruce has never seen before. Whatever Crane is doing to him, it’s bad enough to make Harvey scream himself mute—to break out of his restraints and start taking down guards—to land Harvey in solitary, too dangerous to share a space with anyone else.

Harvey screamed so much that Crane soundproofed an entire room just for their sessions.

And here’s Bruce, with his eyes all dried out and red from staring at the screens, his stomach twisting with desire for someone he knows he can’t have.

Bruce thinks of Tetch again. Joker doesn’t like him, that much is obvious. Bruce can see why. If that had been his first meeting with the man, it wouldn’t have made a good impression on him, either. Tetch was giving off all the signs of discomfort and intimidation.

Bruce just isn’t convinced it was Joker intimidating him.

Dr. Crane’s publications record is a testament to his expertise in the phobia community. He has a list of qualifications as long as an article in and of itself. It was a huge get for Arkham when Tetch managed to recruit him, Crane coming on-board to fill the head doctor position Tetch vacated when he became warden.

Bruce had been hesitant. Crane is published prolifically with excellent standing in his field, but it’s his student evaluations that gave Bruce reason for pause. Crane had already broken into the news cycle years before when he brought a gun into the classroom, a prop for a lecture on school shootings anxiety. Students came out in droves with their own stories about him. He would call on volunteers regularly, terrifying them with fear-inducing experiences in the lecture theatre—spiders, snakes and bugs—even virtual reality simulations of falling or being chased.

Those moments in the recording where Tetch breaks eye-contact to look askance, it’s like he was afraid of being overheard even in the privacy of his own office. Bruce is beginning to piece together a theory as to why.

‘Joker, what can you tell me about Crane?’

‘Mm. I can tell you he gives me the creepy-crawlies in a big way, love. He doesn’t respect personal boundaries at all.’

Bruce covers his mouth to hide a smile, remembering a moment too late that Joker can’t see him. The clown doesn’t seem to pick up on the irony.

‘And a little birdie told me he’s a big contributor to those nasty intranet forums.’

‘A little birdie.’

‘You’re not the only one with mysteries. You should really focus on figuring out Crane, though. Not little old me.’

But I want to figure you out, Bruce thinks. I want to know everything about you. Maybe then I’ll be able to fucking think again.

‘Then give me more to go on.’

Joker sets down his book, reclining back on the bed. Bruce watches him cross his hands behind his head through the room’s camera feed. The view through the lenses shows the flat white ceiling, the recessed lights.

‘He told me he uses aromatherapy in his sessions,’ Joker says. ‘It seems like an odd match, if you ask me.’

‘Why?’

‘Crane has a blunt force approach to therapy. He doesn’t exactly ease you into anything.’

‘He’s tactless.’

‘Very. Upfront, no room for argument. His way or the highway.’

It’s not just a bad first impression; Joker’s been matched with Crane before. Bruce types a search inquiry into the security archive for Joker’s original admission date.

‘He did your entrance interview, didn’t he? Back in March.’

Joker answers after a long hesitation.

‘He did.’

Bruce raises an eyebrow.

‘And how did that go?’

‘It— um. It went fine.’

‘Joker.’

‘I don’t know,’ Joker whines. The lens feed turns black when he covers his face. ‘I freaked out, okay? Like earlier.’

It puts Bruce on red alert. Earlier, when Joker crashed into a cubicle and begged Bruce to distract him? That had him so worried, he nearly called a stop to this whole thing. If that’s already happened a time before, then Joker’s outburst wasn’t an isolated incident. It’s part of a pattern.

‘A panic attack?’

‘Maybe.’ Joker shifts a little on his bed. ‘I think it must have been. I don’t want you think I’m thin-skinned, Bats. It’s just …’

Joker trails into silence, trying to find the right words. Bruce gives him a moment to string his answer together.

‘He was trying to pry into things I didn’t want him prying into.’ Joker’s voice comes out quieter than normal, edged with embarrassment. ‘We were in this mouldy old room downstairs. It barely lasted a minute, I mean that. I pulled myself out of it like before. But I … I guess I got a little lost, up here.’

Joker taps his temple, scowling a little.

‘It’s not exactly easy being admitted into an asylum, you know.’

Bruce winces.

‘I can imagine.’

That admission seems to help. Joker relaxes a little, letting out the tight breath he’d been holding. It strikes Bruce that there’s no reason Joker would be putting that on for him— none at all.

There are times when Joker dials his character to the extreme. It’s always when they have an audience and Joker turns just that little bit more jester than man, giggling, showboating and performing for all he’s worth.

But when they’re alone—even when they’re alone here—Joker’s … different. Calmer, maybe. It’s as if that makes him more himself, but it makes him more vulnerable, too.

‘There should be footage of it somewhere,’ Joker adds, not knowing Bruce is already on it. ‘I spotted a camera in the corner of the room that night. Actually, could you take a look at something else for me while you’re there?’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘There was a lady in the hallway that night. She saw me when we walked past.’

‘Another patient?’

‘I haven’t seen her around,’ Joker explains. ‘I was wondering if she got better.’

Bruce dredges that night’s security recording out of the archived files. He scrubs through it until he hits Joker’s arrival at the asylum, then keeps skipping forward until Crane enters the scene and takes over Joker’s custody.

Crane strides down the ground floor hallway on-screen with a crestfallen Joker following behind him. Bruce grimaces to see it. It’s a very different Joker to the one he had dropped off in the unloading bay that night. His hair is all wet, plastered down to his scalp, and he’s trying to pick his jumpsuit away from where it’s clinging to his elbows.

Being generous, the recording quality is complete dog shit. Bruce makes a mental note to fund an upgrade to the building systems. The footage is in night vision at least, but it’s a fuzzy greyscale rather than green, partially overtaken by white static where the lights blare along the linoleum floors.

Crane hesitates halfway down the hallway, attention shifting to an open door. Joker peers around him to see why. His body language perks with curiosity the instant he does, his head cocking a little to one side.

Bruce has to toggle through the feeds before he finds one positioned the right way to see inside the open room. There’s a woman sitting on the floor. Her legs are crossed and her eyes are downcast, her long black hair hanging flatly in front of her face.

Jesus. It’s like something from a found footage horror movie, especially when her head snaps up and fixes Crane with an unseeing stare. She points at the doctor with one trembling finger, mouth moving.

Bruce slows and magnifies the footage to get a better read on her lips.

Crow, she’s saying in silence. Crow.

The Batcave supercomputer picks out her identifying features—the gaunt point of her aquiline nose, the distance between her eyes and the length of her jaw—then starts matching them to patient records. Abigail. Her identification cards start bursting onto the screen automatically, then her criminal history. Born in Fayerville, South Carolina, she’s turning 30 in November. She was on-track for class valedictorian before she put another student into a coma at a science showcase.

They tore her apart in the news cycle. Bruce’s eyes race along the scanned articles jumping up. The attack lost her a prestigious scholarship and landed her in juvenile detention. She was institutionalised at just 19 years old, and she’s bounced between psychiatric facilities ever since.

‘Found her,’ Bruce grunts. ‘Abigail Allaston.’

Joker had been cleaning his nails but he falters when he hears the name. He reaches across the bed for his book, flipping it open to the back page. Besides his own, there’s only one other entry in the borrowing register.

‘I’m reading her book, darling.’

It has Bruce leaning closer to his computer screens.

‘Can you show me the cover again?’

Joker does, turning the book over. It’s a simple enough cover. The plain beige background is only broken by the image of a shrieking raven. It’s almost like black watercolour, a smear of spilled ink in the suggestion of a blackbird, a crow.

Crow.

Bruce doesn’t say anything. The silence is heavy enough without him needing to spell it out. It could be nothing, he tells himself. But he isn’t convinced, dread spilling through him like ink in water, and Joker sounds decidedly more concerned when he next speaks.

‘Did she make it out?’

Bruce reads out the information on-screen.

‘They transferred her out of Arkham three months ago.’

‘Where to?’

‘Alamora House,’ Bruce grunts. ‘It’s a high dependence respite home. She’s marked as an indefinite stay.’

Joker nods slowly. Bruce gives him his space as he starts looking into Alamora. The care home is in Ellendale, about a half hour outside of Metropolis. It’s a five-hour roundtrip across the bay.

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. He could cut that down to one hour flat if he took the Batwing, but he’d bet the Manor that the moment he touches Metropolis airspace, Superman will know. Things are complicated enough without adding a flying alien with laser vision into the mix.

‘We could take a drive,’ Joker suggests. ‘I’m liking your passenger seat more and more lately.’

It derails Bruce’s train of thought right then and there. Joker’s just about the only thing that could make that long drive bearable.

It’s shockingly easy to imagine. He’d glance across the console and catch Joker smiling out the window just like last night. He’d get to see what Joker’s skin looks like when it’s catching the sunset reflecting off the bay. They would flirt and tease each other the whole way there until Bruce wouldn’t be able to stand it. He’d pull over and drag Joker with him into the backseat, get that second kiss he’s been dying for ever since the first one. He would make Joker gasp just like he did in that bathroom, but this time it would be for him, no-one else. Just him.

Bruce wants him. There’s something almost despairing in the truth of it, the chasm of helplessness beneath the word. He wants those soft encouragements and that dangerous smile in his bed. He wants to fuck Joker until he’s just as stupid as Bruce feels whenever those powder-white fingertips skim along his skin.

And Bruce is sick, he’s so fucking ugly inside, because all of a sudden it didn’t matter that this is work and that Joker’s in an asylum. It just didn’t fucking matter to him one bit that he’s supposed to be Batman, invulnerable, the epitome of self-control.

He was going to masturbate to Joker making out with someone else, imagining it was him—imagining he was the one shoving Joker against the stalls, all breathy and hot—spreading his legs apart to get closer.

‘I really am sorry, Bats. I know you said you don’t want to talk about it.’ Joker adds that part quickly, rushing the words out. ‘I just … I wanted you to know I regret what I did.’

Bruce shakes his head even though Joker can’t see it, maybe because Joker can’t see it. Joker isn’t the one who should feel guilty.

‘You got good intel.’

‘I’d rather have you.’

Joker locks up a split second after it slips out, his heartbeat stammering higher.

‘Your comfort, I mean.’

Joker is still facing toward the wall. Bruce can tell by the little twitches to his jaw that he’s worrying his lip with his teeth. He’s in greyscale in the Arkham feed, but there’s a lock of dark green hair falling across the lens footage. He hasn’t stopped staring at the wall the entire time they’ve been talking. Keeping his darling’s cover, Bruce thinks distantly.

Inside, Bruce is giving in to something he doesn’t have the words for. It’s gravitational. It’s impossible to keep away from it. He has no idea how long he’s been awake for, exhaustion laying siege to his inner defences.

He’s tired and he’s lonely, and kissing Joker felt better than anything ever has.

‘Who’s better?’

Bruce hears Joker repeat the question back under his breath, trying to make sense of it.

‘I’m not sure I follow, love.’

‘Between me and Flamenco,’ Bruce clarifies. ‘Who’s better?’

‘Are you feeling insecure, darling?’

Bruce leans back in his chair, quietly wondering the same thing.

‘Humour me.’

‘You.’

There’s no hesitation in it. Joker says it so easily, frowning a little like the answer should be obvious.

‘Of course it’s you. Bats, if I could kiss just one person for the rest of my life? It would be you.’

Bruce doesn’t know whether to laugh, roll his eyes or give in to the loneliness inside him leaning toward Joker with fresh interest. He watches Joker’s pulse beat its rhythm in the corner of the monitor.

‘You’ve never struck me as the monogamous type.’

‘You’ve never asked.’

Joker’s resting heartrate is faster than most. It turns jackhammer fast when he’s excited or panicking, a heart attack on anyone else. But right now, his pulse is steady. It’s an electronic lifeline in neon green, the perfect picture of polygraph honesty.

‘Crows mate for life, darling.’ Joker runs a finger down the spine of his book, lips curling in a sweet smile. ‘Do bats?’

Bruce doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how to. He reaches over and flicks off the microphone, mouth oddly dry. Joker’s smile stretches further like he can tell, going back to his book.

Bruce wants to take that book right out of his hands. He wants to set it down somewhere Joker can’t reach, get his hands up under Joker’s jumpsuit and roll him over.

He wrestles it back down. It’s just that it’s been a while, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything beyond that he’s pent up and Joker’s unfairly hot. He’s small, confident and stylish, soft somehow even when his teeth are sharp enough to hurt. Even in that shapeless Arkham jumpsuit—even when he doesn’t have his lipstick or his eyeshadow or his gorgeous suits—Joker just ruins Bruce.

But he’s not …

It wouldn’t actually work between them.

They’re on opposite ends of a spectrum, oil and water. They’re not meant to mix.

Why did you let him into the cave, then? Why are you working with him to begin with?

Because it’s work. There was no other choice. It doesn’t mean anything.

Then why did you kiss him, genius?

Bruce swallows. He can hear Joker’s voice again, moaning you could do anything to me.

It wasn’t real. It was reconnaissance, pillow talk to get information from Flamenco. Joker doing what Joker does.

I would crawl into your lap and make you growl out my name.

That mental image is so vivid and devastating, the thought of Joker and all of the things he could do with that dangerous mouth to make Bruce moan.

Bruce knows why he kissed him. Of course he does. He kissed Joker because, God help him, Bruce wants to fuck him. And just for a second, the magnitude of that desire won out against his self-control—

—just like it’s winning again now.

Maybe it’s attraction that makes him open his belt. Maybe it’s that Bruce is fucking exhausted because he hasn’t slept in over 24 hours unless he’s counting two-hour naps.

He pops open the button on his pants. His self-restraint is at breaking point. He just wants to feel good. He wants to go back to how he felt when Joker’s mouth was crushed up against his own in the cabin of the Batmobile, electric all over in the eye of the storm.

He needs the inferno of over-analysis inside of him to stop, and the easiest way to do that is to let himself have what he wants. He wants to go watch that footage again while he gets himself off. He wants to listen to Joker moaning out dirty talk until he paints his own hand white.

He can’t. It seems strange to draw the line there and not at the fact that he’s even doing this in the first place, but he can’t. He physically can’t make his hands go anywhere near the mouse or keyboard, knowing deep down that he couldn’t live with that guilt. He can’t even let himself look at the live security feed on-screen. It would be too much of a betrayal.

So Bruce keeps his eyes on himself as he draws his aching cock free. His breath trembles. It’s a relief as much as it’s a torment, a reprieve from the pressure as much as it makes the pressure worse.

Hotter.

Harder, even under his own stroking fist. His cock is radiating heat like a furnace from the blooming head right down to the base. It’s cooler at the tip because the cold cave air is lapping at where he’s already leaking wet, and here he is. This is him, with his pants pulled open, his thick length lit only by the light from his computer screen, breath hitching as he rubs himself off.

He’s so hard. He’s been hungry for it all day, grinding himself on his chair like a dog.

He twists his hand at the base, the hair there neat and trimmed. He keeps it in check even though he hasn’t been getting any lately. When was the last time? The Euralea, maybe— the last time he pushed his cock right to the root inside another person’s dripping wet heat. Joker would feel like that—his ass or his long, curling lips—that hot little tongue.

Bruce felt a brush of Joker’s tongue when they kissed. It slid across his bottom lip the way a Catholic kisses the rosary, like Joker was offering up a prayer. He wasn’t asking for anything. He was just there, all gratitude and helpless devotion.

If this is a fight between them, then Bruce is losing. He’s so far out of his goddamn league. Because he can’t stop thinking about fucking Joker any more than he can stop his hips rocking forward to fuck his own hand.

He can’t stop craving him. Every last one of his thoughts is drowning beneath memories of Joker’s suits and his teeth and the absolute filth that pours from his mouth when he’s getting nasty with someone bigger than he is.

‘God,’ Bruce chokes out, head falling against the back of his computer chair. His hand speeds up without him even meaning for it to. He’s alternating the pressure all the way along, wondering whether it’s the same way Joker would kiss his cock.

Bruce groans, the sound rattling out from deep inside his chest.

Joker’s teeth could rip him to ribbons in seconds flat, and Bruce’s cock jumps in his fist, because he knows—knows it, would stake his own life on it—that Joker would never.

No, Joker would be so careful. He’d pop Bruce’s head just barely past his lips, teeth kept out of the way to protect him. Then he’d work his powder-white hands over every inch that would force him to leave unsucked.

He would moan into every second, looking up at Bruce with those sexy green eyes. His make-up would be faded from all the sweat Bruce would have already worked out of him. And he would look right at him through his mascara and tears, and even with saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth, even then Joker would still be talking.

Please, Joker would gurgle, more drool than word. Please, baby. Keep going. I need it, Bruce. Please give it to me. He would whimper it right into Bruce’s cock, begging him to keep going. He would be fucking insatiable. He’d take everything from Bruce and then some.

You could do anything to me, Joker said.

He wasn’t talking to Flamenco.

Bruce rolls the head of his cock through the foreskin as he pulls himself off. There’s a shock of pleasured exposure whenever he rolls it down enough that the tip peeks free from its sheath. He’s embarrassingly close, leaking pre-come. It’s drooling all over his fingers, a thin liquid layer slicking his palm like he’s been licking his own hand.

He’s so fucking close.

Then Joker hums a little moan, but it’s not in Bruce’s memory. It’s live, it’s in the room with him, and his head snaps up, heart damn near stopping altogether. Joker is still buried in his book. He makes that noise again, a hum of appreciation. It’s not for Bruce but for the book, and Bruce is a very, very bad man—

—because that sound is what gets him over the edge.

He comes like that, all of the breath knocking out of him as he shoots into his own hand. He keeps going, stroking through it, forcing the orgasm to go on for longer. He strains against the arch of his chair, an overstimulated hiss slipping through his clenched teeth.

It’s so good he can taste it, the peak of his pleasure tingling along the back of his tongue. He’s high on it, drunk from the endorphins swimming through his body.

Bruce collapses back against his chair, his mind finally empty. It’s complete bliss.

He needed that bad.

And it’s heaven, for a minute.

But then the clarity seeps back in.

It settles over him like a death shroud. He feels it like a physical pressure on his spine. It’s clawing him up inside within seconds, turning his stomach with regret and self-loathing.

Wake up, asshole.

Joker doesn’t actually want Batman. It’s another joke, just like all of the darlings and the lipstick kisses that Bruce finds on the cowl when he gets back to the cave. He’s just poking fun at the difference between them: the aggressive machismo of the Bat, and how sharply it contrasts against the easy ambiguity of the Joker in his make-up and high heels.

That’s what the bathroom was about. It was Joker laying bait for him, catching him out in his own hang-ups. Like Joker was saying, See what I’ll do that you won’t?

See how easily you could get the answers you want, if you would just loosen up?

It’s not real. He’s not serious.

And even if he was—if Joker meant it, if Joker really was hot for someone—he would never be hot for Bruce. It would be for the mask. The anonymity.

Batman.

Bruce nods even though it feels like hanging his head in surrender or slipping his neck through a noose. But even then, it keeps bouncing around in Bruce’s head. It echoes back and forth until it starts to sound like his own voice.

I wish I was with you somewhere nice and quiet.

I wish I was with you.

I wish.

Bruce knows he needs to call it when he finally runs out of coffee down in the cave.

It’s never a good sign when he stops being able to remember the last time he slept in an actual bed. He tries to retrace his steps as he rides the elevator back up to the Manor. He knows he snatched a nap earlier when Joker was being admitted around dawn. And he thinks he can remember getting some shut-eye the day before, after he stopped Zsasz from skewering himself on Blackgate’s fence.

He’s still trying to puzzle it out as he skirts past the darkened kitchen. Jesus. The cold night sky beyond the windows makes him cringe inside. It’s night again, which means a full day has gone by since he last came out of the cave.

‘Something you’d care to share, sir?’

It comes from the shadows hidden behind the elevator. Bruce’s stomach drops into his shoes even before Alfred steps into the kitchen, straightening his waistcoat as he does. He crosses his gloved hands behind his back, looking at Bruce expectantly.

If it were anyone else, they’d be on the floor. But Bruce’s reflexes have never been reliable when Alfred finds that middle-ground between accusation and concern, that disappointed dad look making Bruce feel about three feet tall.

‘Jesus.’ Bruce leans against the wall, sucking in a breath. ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack?’

Alfred frowns. He strides over and grabs Bruce’s face by the chin, steely eyes combing their way over his features. He can imagine what Alfred must be seeing: his dishevelled hair and bloodshot eyes.

‘I daresay you’re on your way to giving yourself one,’ Alfred mutters. ‘Good God, Master Bruce. When did you last get some rest?’

Bruce steps backward, out from under his hands.

‘Work got the better of me. I must have lost track of time.’

‘Ah,’ Alfred says, nodding. ‘Of course. Work. And are we going to pretend that this work is the kind you do in the light of day? Because a half-dozen missed calls from Lucius Fox and your executive team would disagree.’

It takes Bruce a moment to figure it out. He gets as far as, Why would Lucius be, when it hits him. His posture deflates. He lets his eyes close.

‘The board meeting.’

‘At last,’ Alfred chuckles. ‘He remembers!’

Bruce pats himself down for his phone. A string of missed calls chokes out his notification log— Lucius, Lucius, Anna, Lucius again, even Alfred himself. It’s 7:18 pm. It’s not ideal, but if he throws himself through the shower and dials in from home, he’ll only be half an hour late.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

‘Don’t you even think about it,’ Alfred snaps. ‘I’ll cut the power to this whole bloody property before I see you go before the company board in such a state. Now I’m going to ask you again, and I’d advise you think carefully before you lie to me again, Bruce.’

Alfred’s piercing gaze sees right through Bruce, unwaveringly intense.

‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

He’s Bruce’s third parent, the only family he has left. But right now, it just makes Bruce feel cornered. He feels like he’s just a delinquent teenager again, ready to lash out at everyone around him—so full of pain, anger and guilt—that bottomless, unforgiveable guilt.

Back then, he’d poured it all out onto Alfred. There had been no other choice. He’d have turned it inward and taken it out on his own body, otherwise; made himself burn and bleed to atone for not having died in their stead.

He still remembers every word he threw at Alfred—every fuck you, I hate you, get out—every I never want to see you again. Bruce promised himself he would never again add to that pile. He sat at his parents’ graveside and swore to their memory that he would never raise his voice to Alfred even one more time for the rest of his life.

‘It’s Harvey.’ Bruce practically spits it, unable to make eye-contact when he does. ‘I got a tip-off about what they’re doing to him in Arkham. It’s bad, and he … he needs Batman.’

Alfred draws a breath but Bruce gets there first.

‘Not me,’ he says. ‘Just Batman.’

It stops Alfred in his tracks. For a moment, Bruce isn’t sure which way he’s going to go. Then Alfred’s mouth forms in a tight line even as he lets out a slow breath through his nose.

‘I’ll make you a coffee. But it’s the last one for the night.’

He adds it sharply, and Bruce can only nod, suffused by gratitude. Alfred softens to see it. He lays one hand on Bruce’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

‘Have a seat, son. You’ll tell me all about it and we’ll chart a path through this.’

Chapter Text

Every time, it goes something like this: they’re up on the roof together, the sky lightening around them with dawn, and suddenly they’re not fighting any more.

The pretence of the fistfight melts away just like that, and then everything is— God, it’s perfect. There are no more punches, just Batman’s gloves clutching at the back of his coat. He’s rasping those scorching groans right into Joker’s open collar. Suddenly, Batman isn’t trying to wrestle Joker down. He’s trying to hold him closer, trying to catch him—keep him—never let him leave.

‘I missed you,’ Batman pants out, a hot breath across Joker’s gasping mouth.

It takes a moment for the words to register because everything is melting at the edges. The sky is hyperfluorescent. Those colours are so surreal where they’re turning to syrup along the horizon. And when Joker realises what he just heard everything inside of him just combusts, a barely-contained eruption of heat and fire radiating through every cell in his body.

‘You—’

Joker gags. It’s like his mouth doesn’t want to open or maybe more like the words want to stay inside his throat where they’re safe. But he needs to say it. From down deep inside, from the very core of him where desperation is burning his insides like a fever, he needs them out. He’ll die if the words stay inside.

‘You m-missed me?’

‘Yeah.’ Batman’s growl crackles with want, glitching apart. ‘Couldn’t think about anything else.’

He’s so busy holding Joker to his chest, it’s like he’s forgotten completely that they were making out a moment ago. Oh, God. It’s like he needs Joker so badly that he can’t remember how to multitask, and it’s ruining Joker. It’s killing him, because this man is everything he’s ever wanted, and he’s right here in Joker’s arms. Batman buries his face in Joker’s shoulder.

‘Joker, I missed you so fucking bad.’

‘Darling,’ Joker gasps, choking on it, drowning in him. ‘Darling, I need—’

‘Tell me. Tell me what you need.’

‘You,’ Joker whimpers. ‘I just need you.’

His hands fumble around the seal of the cowl. His eyes are stinging wet at the corners and the back, that place right at the back where their nerves run directly to his melting mind.

‘Take it off, baby. Please? Please, let me in. Let me know you.’

Batman moans out a curse, then reaches for the cowl. There’s no protest at all. He’s just ready, like it’s the easiest thing in the entire world, too much trust and honesty between them for him to even hesitate.

‘Let me,’ Joker begs. ‘Please, I want to.’

‘Anything.’

And Batman takes Joker’s hands in his own and draws them to where they need to go, he helps Joker press on the pressure points to make the air seal release with a hiss, and oh, it’s happening, h-he’s really about to see his soulmate’s eyes for the first time, and Joker—

—wakes up.

He covers his face with his hands as he arches against the Arkham bedsheets, letting out a tormented groan. Of course. Of course he would wake up before the best part.

Of course he would wake up hard.

He doesn’t know what else he expected. He’d been dreaming about Batman, after all. And it had been such a good dream. Batman had been so unguarded, so easy and affectionate. It really should have clued Joker in sooner that it wasn’t real.

Joker bites his lip. It’s hard to feel disappointed when he’s still so riled up. He’d have the time of his life if he was a lucid dreamer. God, give him five good minutes. He’d get under all that armour, really give Batman something to growl about.

And it’s what happened in the bathroom yesterday but mostly it’s just what’s happening inside Joker’s chest from the moment Batman said he’d help him, unlocking the Batmobile and letting Joker slide right in. It’s how he spent hours asking him those maddening, perfect little questions about his suits, his history, the colour of his hair. Letting Joker hold his hands. And kissing him—God, kissing him so sweet and careful—asking for consent then taking over control the moment he got it. The way Bats held him by the back of the neck still makes Joker shiver. All that heady power … He’s never felt so owned.

Joker’s so hard, it hurts. He repositions but even that, the simple action of twisting his hips to roll over, even that makes the sheets rake friction over his cock. It leaves him shivering. Joker clamps his lips tight together to hide his stuttering breathing.

Oh, God. He can already tell there’s only one way this is going to end. He needs to get off. He feels like he’s going to go insane if he doesn’t give himself over to it.

‘Bats?’

Joker asks it in a hushed whisper, barely there.

There’s nothing in response.

He’s asleep. Right? He’d have to be. He’s been awake as long as Joker has, then longer. There’s no way Joker can know for sure, though.

This is dangerous.

He knows better than this. Even if Bats by some miracle isn’t paying attention right now, who knows who else could be watching Arkham’s security feeds with their eyes glued to their screens, just waiting for an excuse to rescind his welcome and cart him to Blackgate with the rest of Gotham’s monsters?

There’s no denying the situation he’s in. His thighs are pressed tellingly together even as he turns to face the wall, face burning with heat even though it would look so pale from the outside looking in. Batman could be watching him. God, please. He would be so focussed and concentrated. Batman would barely even blink, watching Joker squirm on the sheets with an investigator’s gaze.

And even if he’s not watching right now, what if he checks the footage later?

‘Fuck,’ Joker whispers, defences crumbling. He wants that so badly it makes his cock swell the rest of the way into hardness, linked directly to the inferno beneath his stomach.

He wants Batman to see this—him, no make-up and nobody else around—just Joker and the telltale shifting of his hospital sheets as he takes himself in hand. He wants all that hot, heady attention to tunnel right down on him.

He feels nothing, at first. It’s like his hand isn’t even there even when it’s wrapped around his own erection. He tries higher up, closer to the base—lets out a little shudder—fuck, there. He’s broken by the complete relief of touch when he so badly needs it. If he stays right there with his fingers making a ring around the base of his cock, his damaged nerves make it feel like someone else’s hand. His hips tremble at the thought. He fucks the hole he’s made for himself slowly, grinding through his own fingers, hot and hard and desperate.

But every time he slides his hand too close to the tip, the feeling just vanishes. Fuck, no, come on. Tighter, maybe? Joker hisses as the crash of stimulation makes everything worse. It’s too much too fast, and his skin is too raw for it to be anything but painful.

10 minutes of joyless masturbation later, he has to face up to the obvious.

It’s just not going to happen.

The frustration makes him want to rip his own face off. He should have known better. There’s not much comfort to be found in his own touch, ever since the acid. Either he doesn’t feel it at all or he feels it entirely too much. He can never find the middle-ground, that Goldilocks place where he can finally feel it just right.

And as for letting someone else try, well. Joker doesn’t dare take that risk. If his blood is poison, he really doesn’t want to know what his come could do to someone. He keeps the focus on the precious few safe places to his body when he hooks up at the bar or backstage at the club—his hands and his chest—his thighs and his ass. They never want his mouth, of course. He’s yet to meet a man who doesn’t shrivel at the sight of his teeth.

Joker gives a long sigh. Edging is only fun when it’s on purpose. This is just sad.

There’s only one thing for it. Joker runs a hand over his face tiredly, stretching his back by arching against the sheets. Then he starts to imagine, in as much detail as he can conjure, what it would be like to take a cheese grater to his genitals.

It works every time. He’s soft in under a minute, groaning at the missed opportunity. Still, it’s not as if it’s the first time he’s had to put his desire out of mind. And besides, there are more important things he could be thinking about—like the jigsaw puzzles and colour-ins waiting for him in the day rooms, he supposes—or his first therapy session with Dr. Tetch, booked for later in the day.

He’d rather be showing his body off for Batman. It would be a better therapy than any of this, Joker imagines. He could waste the day away earning those quick inhales of reaction whenever he croons dirty promises or murmurs soft words of love.

The dentist doesn’t keep him waiting, though that’s where the niceties end. They have a guard in the room with him the entire time he’s in the dentist’s chair, even though they already have him in a winching muzzle to prevent him from biting. He flinches at one point from the sound of the drill. As soon as he does, they strap his hands down, too.

Shame and humiliation burn a hole through him as they take their x-rays and get a bite mold of his teeth. He would have been more than happy to let them, is the thing. This isn’t how he wanted this to go. He was so excited when they told him they were getting in a dental specialist just to assess him. He wanted the dentist to be wonderstruck by his teeth so Joker could preen with pride and show them off. He didn’t want … this.

There’s a nurse waiting for him in the doctors’ hallway, loitering against the wall. His small eyes flit to where Joker’s rubbing his wrists where they’re chafed from the restraints. Joker remembers the nurse from the cafeteria yesterday—Aaron—the one who made him beg just to get a better flavour on his toast.

‘Good morning,’ Joker beams.

‘Afternoon now,’ Aaron drawls. ‘You’re due to see the warden in 10.’

Already? Joker must have been in that chair for longer than he realised. It’s not hard to believe. At some point, he just let his mind wander for a means to escape the situation.

‘You looked good like that,’ Aaron says. ‘Mouth open. Stuck.’

He drags out the K at the end of the word, letting it drip from his tongue. Suddenly, Joker sees a mental image of this man ogling him from the doorway while the dentists pried open his mouth and strapped him to the chair. He had no control at all in that situation. They could have done anything to him and he would have just had to take it.

‘I love it when I have an audience.’

It must have been the wrong thing to say, because Aaron’s eyes narrow in. He reaches into the pocket of his hospital scrubs. Joker’s uneasy even before he pulls out the handcuffs.

‘Turn around. Against the wall.’

Joker pouts even as he does it. It’s not as though he has a choice.

‘Not even a please?’

‘No point,’ Aaron snorts. ‘I don’t need to be polite to you.’

It could be the tagline of Joker’s life. What’s one more rough touch? It’s a drop in the bucket compared to how many other people in the building have already shifted uncomfortably at the mere sight of him. They’re always going to feel that urge to strike first when it comes to him. They’ll tie him up before he scratches, muzzle him before he can bite. Aaron’s putting it mildly, if anything.

I don’t need to be polite to you.

‘No,’ Joker agrees quietly as the cuffs snap closed. ‘I suppose you don’t.’

Aaron keeps a hand on the small of Joker’s back unnecessarily as he takes him upstairs to the warden’s office. It’s an uncomfortable walk, but it’s standard enough until they approach Tetch’s door. The patient before Joker is leaving as they round the corner, bracketed by an orderly on either side. Joker braces himself. Valentin Flamenco is scowling even before they make eye-contact.

Flamenco didn’t have that black eye yesterday. His grey jumpsuit is unbuttoned from the waist up, arms tied off at the waist. The dip of his wifebeater shows the top of his Blackgate tattoos: each one of his victims’ names, inked all the way down his sternum.

He’s civil until they pass each other by. The orderlies aren’t fast enough to catch the cannibal before he crashes a bony shoulder into Joker’s chest, knocking him off-balance. Aaron’s quick to catch him by the hips to keep him from falling.

‘Maricón,’ Flamenco sneers. ‘Duerme con un ojo abierto, payasa.’

It’s as much as they let him bark out. Joker doesn’t speak Spanish but he can take a good enough guess. He swallows as the orderlies lead Flamenco back to the day rooms. Batman’s been radio silent all morning, leaving Joker with no way of knowing if he’s riding this one solo. Aaron gestures him through to the office, and Joker’s not sure which makes him more uncomfortable: the idea of Batman wasting his attention on something other than him—

—or the thought of facing Dr. Tetch completely alone.

The warden’s office is as stately as it was the day before, with its grand desk and ticking antique clock. Dr. Tetch scrawls a note in a leatherbound journal before he gives Joker any acknowledgement beyond a glance.

‘Mr. Joker,’ Tetch smirks, checking his pocket watch. ‘And you’re two minutes early! Wonderful.’ He unbuttons his suit jacket as he settles down behind his desk. ‘You know, you’ve made quite the impression on Mr. Flamenco.’

Joker’s skin crawls as he takes his seat.

‘What have you heard, exactly?’

‘Oh, now. I can’t tell you that. Patient confidentiality! Though I will say that his story isn’t anything our hallway cameras didn’t already suggest. Don’t you just love putting on a show?’

Tetch is brewing a fresh pot of tea on his desk. The white ceramic teapot is steaming from its spout, a patch of condensation forming beside the coaster.

‘Nothing unexpected, I suppose. These things often go hand in hand. Say, may I offer you a cup?’

Joker just blinks at him. Tetch sees his surprise and laughs it off.

‘Must be the gentleman in me. Call it a little southern hospitality.’

The tea is herbal going by the smell, either hibiscus or chamomile, though the plain white teapot gives nothing away. Harley would know. Joker’s never been any good at picking the difference between one type of tea and another.

‘That depends,’ Joker says. ‘Can I add sugar?’

Tetch’s brows lift.

‘Much as you like.’

Well, now. That changes everything.

‘Yes, please.’

With Joker’s hands cuffed, Tetch adds the sugar to the cup for him. He waits for Joker to say when. His eyebrows creep even higher when Joker stays silent until the fifth spoon. He’s hopeful Tetch will at least take off the handcuffs to let him drink, but then the doctor opens one of his desk drawers and pulls out a bendable plastic straw.

The last thing Tetch does before their session starts is reach tentatively for the metronome on his desk. Joker noticed the antique last time but hadn’t clocked it—hah—as anything more than a paperweight. It’s a surprise when Tetch fiddles with its settings, preparing to set it in motion.

‘Hope you don’t mind,’ Tetch says, adjusting the metronome on its coaster. ‘Helps me keep time, in my head.’

Joker frowns, glancing at the grandfather clock. It’s directly in Tetch’s eyeline. The doctor sees where he’s looking and chuckles, giving a self-deprecating nod.

‘Embarrassing, I know. But you wouldn’t believe how easily that old thing fades into the background.’

Joker weighs his options. The extra sound will be annoying, especially if it doesn’t end up in synchronisation with the clock. But if he says no, Tetch will make a note about him being difficult. He’d probably, Joker thinks, use a different word. “Contrarian”, maybe, or “adversarial”. It leaves Joker with only one real answer.

‘Go right ahead.’

‘Much obliged.’

Tetch tugs the brass ticker down toward the surface of his desk before letting it go. It starts swinging to and fro with a resonant clack every time it reaches the apex. Joker was right: it ticks at a rhythm slower than the grandfather clock, making an eerie effect whenever the two timekeepers tick in tandem before slowly drifting apart again in a repeating loop.

‘Now,’ Tetch begins, scooting closer in his big chair. ‘Where shall we begin?’

Joker just shrugs.

‘You tell me, doc. Word associations? Ink blots?’

‘Spoken like a true sceptic.’ There’s laughter in the doctor’s eyes but there’s a tightness to his smile at the same time. His gaze rakes over Joker in a quick scan. ‘Tell me, do you believe in therapy?’

‘When there’s a need for it.’

‘You don’t think you need it?’

Joker gets the distinct feeling that Tetch is humouring him. But then, he did ask for it.

‘I know I don’t.’

Tetch’s smile falls like a guillotine.

‘Histrionic personality disorder.’

Joker’s heart stammers. His stomach is suddenly cold to the core like he swallowed a whole tray of ice. Is that what they found before Harley turned him loose? Is that what he asked Batman not to say to him on the drive here?

‘I didn’t want to know,’ Joker rasps out. ‘I told the doctors that.’

Tetch chuckles, waving him off.

‘Come, now. It’s hardly a death sentence. And that goes for the rest, too. You’re a borderline personality to boot. Why, it’s all right here in your psych eval. It’s textbook, frankly.’

He could be tricking me, Joker thinks, scrambling for a way out. I can’t know for sure.

Only, he can. Because he doesn’t know what it means or what it entails, but he can take a good enough guess—histrionic like hysterical—personality disorder like mentally incorrect.

‘I guess what I’m trying to say here is—’ Tetch hesitates, then forges ahead. ‘Well, you’re not special. Not at all. And I don’t mean that unkindly. It should be a comfort! A hundred just like yourself have walked through our gates. In time, I’m sure a hundred more. We know precisely what we’re looking at in you, and we know precisely how to support you through it— to best manage your conditions, that is.’

‘I don’t need that,’ Joker says tightly. ‘Whatever you might think, this isn’t some disorder. It’s who I am. It’s who I’m supposed to be.’

Tetch makes a sympathetic noise like he looked into a dog pound.

‘Do you hear the difference between those two things? Who you are, compared to what you feel the world expects of you.’

Joker doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to answer. Then Tetch goes back to stirring his cup of tea like all of this is purely conversational and suddenly Joker wants to answer him by smashing the whole cup and saucer against the olive wallpaper.

‘I can’t even begin to imagine what taught you that you need all this—’ Tetch casts a hand over Joker dismissively— ‘just to make yourself worthwhile. All the attention seeking and whorish behaviour, good God.’ There is so much pity in those bedroom brown eyes. ‘Really, I can’t imagine why.’

Again, Joker doesn’t react. But this time it’s more like he can’t, whether he’d like to or not.

There’s an empty feeling expanding outward from his stomach. It sweeps him with aching dread. He doesn’t feel like he’s here, exactly. It’s more like being asleep. Things are becoming just that little bit hazy and unpredictable. It’s like he told Catwoman on the gallery roof: It feels like nobody can get hurt. There’s no need to play nice if none of this is real.

Right now, things feel more than real.

I can do anything, Joker realises with a rush, but the next thing he realises is I can’t move.

He can’t move.

He’s glued to the chair, lips sewn shut. It’s not a metaphor. He’s literally stuck, limbs no longer obeying him. His vocal cords are entirely offline.

‘Explain it,’ Tetch suggests. ‘Tell me, what drives you to do it?’

‘Because I have to.’

Joker’s struck by a lightning bolt of horror. Those words came out without his permission. His body isn’t connected to his brain, mouth shaping the words and voicebox giving them volume whether he likes it or not.

‘I need … n-need to sh-show …’

I can be good I can be quiet they won’t know I’m here don’t worry I’ll take care of it you just get some sleep it will all be finished when you wake up

Joker tries to cover his mouth or block it with a fist but he can’t move. He’s not the one in control of his own body. His heart thumps along just like the metronome and the thudding tock-tock-tock of the pendulum.

‘What’s happening?’ Joker chokes out. ‘What …’

‘Ah.’ Tetch gives a knowing nod. ‘Suffice to say that’s a “not yet”, then.’

Joker’s head nods forward, his knee twitching involuntarily. Can he move again? He taps his fingers to test it. Yes, he’s back in control. Joker slams from relief to anger and then right into fear. Something is wrong with him. He just lost all control of his body and felt something else speak through him like Arnold’s ventriloquist’s dummy. His head hurts so badly.

Tetch’s body language opens with false empathy.

‘Let’s talk about something else a minute, I think.’

We’re not talking, Joker screams inside. You are. Me, I’m just losing my mind.

‘Let’s see,’ Tetch muses. ‘Why don’t we start with Wayne Tower?’

Why don’t you run into the ocean and die? Then I won’t need to kill you myself.

That fountain pen would be enough. All Joker would need to do is leapfrog over his own cuffed hands, grab it and stab deep into the noisy red place beneath the good doctor’s jaw. That would make him stop talking. He would stop messing around inside of Joker’s head. It would take 30 seconds— less, even. Joker could get it done in 10.

‘That Tower was the root cause behind your initial stay here in March, it would seem.’

There is so much wrong with me.

Despair opens inside Joker the way an earthquake opens a chasm. He might even be beyond this man’s help. An asylum is the best place for him, really. He can’t hurt anyone while he’s in here. He can’t break the rules.

‘Joker,’ Batman growls into his ear, and that single word cuts through the brewing storm. ‘He’s trying to bait you. Don’t let him.’

Oh, thank God. Joker feels like he’s going to cry. Where were you? Why weren’t you here?

And then the obvious answer:

Because he has better things to do.

After all, Batman would never waste his time on someone like Joker. Batman would never let Joker touch his hands. Batman—the real Batman—would rather beg for death than suffer Joker’s kiss.

‘There’s nothing there for you to psychoanalyse.’ Joker works hard to keep his voice neutral. He can’t let it show that he’s dying inside, now that he’s realised just how far gone he truly is. ‘It was a misunderstanding. And it’s old news by now.’

‘You made an attempt on your own life.’

I know, Joker thinks. And it landed me here, right where I belong.

Maybe his lovely little life with Harley was just a nice dream. Doesn’t that make more sense? He never left this place. It’s all just been a lunatic’s fantasies from inside a mental hospital. And the Batman he’s been hearing, well. He’s not even real. Why would he be? He’s just a figment, a sad little ghost from Joker’s broken brain.

‘That’s not how I saw it at the time.’

‘Oh?’

Joker wants to laugh at that eager response, the way Tetch shifts in his armchair to lean forward, but there’s no laughter left in him. He’s present enough to realise he just gave something away. He couldn’t begin to guess at what.

Tetch is still stirring that teacup, tinka-tinka-tink. The scrape of the teaspoon is an exact counterpoint to the metronome swinging inexorably. Tock, tock, tock, tock. It seems louder than before.

And the doctor is saying something but Joker can’t hold onto the words. He’s more fascinated by what’s happening in his imagination, because he’s still just thinking about Virginia Woolf. It was always his favourite part of Mrs. Dalloway, when Septimus is out on the ledge and Clarissa is just listening to her leaden circles, unaware the reaper is trading her death for another’s.

The lord of men, he knew everything. He knew the meaning of the world.

Joker can see it behind his eyes. Septimus is watching the shells explode all around him in indifference, the world fissuring apart after too much time spent in hell. It leaves him only at the mercy of human nature. Once you fall, human nature is on you. Isn’t that how it went? Holmes and Bradshaw are on you. Crane and Tetch are on him. They scour the desert. They fly screaming into the wilderness. The rack and the thumbscrew are applied.

Chapter Text

Joker’s never liked it when his amnesia starts to slip. With Tetch’s ticking metronome and sonorous voice haunting him after the fact, now he knows why. It’s because whenever it does, it brings him too close to the truth: Batman never spared him another thought after what Joker did on top of Wayne Tower. He’s been in Arkham Asylum ever since, delusional and alone.

He doesn’t touch the plate by his bedside. He won’t even touch his book. He asked to take dinner in his room, claiming to have a headache. Really, it’s so he can eliminate the risk of having another panic attack in full view of all the staff and patients alike. He couldn’t bear the shame of that, not now that he’s finally seeing his world for what it truly is.

‘Alright, we have about half an hour where it’s safe to talk.’

Joker shrinks further into himself at Batman’s words, desperately unwell. That rattling growl used to sound so perfect. Now, it’s just breaking his heart.

‘I’m looping the camera and audio feed from your room. But I can’t keep it up forever, so we have to make it count.’

‘Leave me alone,’ Joker says morosely, inching closer to the wall. ‘I know you’re not real.’

It’s almost funny how that shuts him up, as though Joker caught the figment of his own imagination off-guard. It gives him a moment’s reprieve to shudder down a new breath. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and it’s devastating.

Then Batman just says, ‘What.’

‘It’s overdone,’ Joker scoffs. ‘Don’t you think? Hearing voices— one voice, anyway.’

Him. Joker would do anything for him—believe anything—become anything. He’d walk right into Hell or insanity just so long as Batman was there to keep him enthralled. It took a complete mental breakdown just for Joker to get to feel Batman’s lips on his. It wasn’t even real.

‘I’m not—’ Batman flounders, almost offended. ‘This isn’t some auditory hallucination, Joker.’

‘Mhm.’ Joker’s not surprised. ‘You would say that.’

‘You came to me for help. Don’t you remember that?’

‘I sure do.’

It’s the opposite of amnesia. Joker remembers every last highlight from months upon months of false memories. Harley and their apartment together, the clubs and the drag shows. He thought he had friends. Fans, even. He’d dreamed up everything he’d ever wanted.

‘I remember everything,’ Joker mutters. ‘And none of it, none, ever happened. I’ve been here ever since I tried to jump.’

‘But you weren’t trying to jump.’

Joker just sneers.

‘That’s not what the doctors say.’

It seems to do the trick. Batman goes quiet and Joker’s left hating how badly he wants to hear him again, the eidolon he’s in love with.

‘Look at your arms.’

‘Why? Are you going to try to make me—’

Joker can’t bring himself to say it. He makes a violent slashing gesture instead. The Batman in his head lets out a noise of disgust.

‘No! Of course not! Just— Would you please just look?’

Joker closes his eyes in resignation. He hates himself for how weak he is to that voice, even when it’s his own psyche playing him like a fiddle. One gravelly please in Batman’s voice and Joker would do anything, sanity be damned.

He sits up and begrudgingly rolls the sleeves of his jumpsuit to the elbows. It helps that even the smallest of these shapeless things still hangs on his frame. It leaves his colourless arms fully exposed. They’re hairless, scattered here and there with minor parkour scars.

‘What am I supposed to be seeing?’

Joker waits for the big reveal. Maybe the parkour accidents are false memories, too. Maybe whatever filter his brain has put over the scars is about to vanish, and underneath will be nothing but burns and pockmarks. He’s about to see the truth, he’s sure; the sad, sinister reality he wanted to leave behind so badly that he conjured an entire fake life in his own imagination.

Joker’s sniffling already, distraught. This isn’t how things were supposed to go. For the first time, he had a life he loved living. And every moment was a fever dream, technicolour hallucinations by somebody profoundly beyond help.

‘Your tattoos,’ Batman says.

Joker blinks.

He turns his forearms, putting the tattoos better into his vision. He fell in love with them the second Aram finished sewing them into his skin. He wouldn’t feel whole without those symbols down the backs of his forearms; diamond and spade on one arm, heart and club on the other.

‘You didn’t have them in March. Look at your entrance photos.’

Images pop up into Joker’s vision. They’re of himself, taken against the white backdrop beside the Arkham visitor’s bathroom. 02:27:09 03-21-2021. In them, he’s bedraggled and freshly bandaged at the shoulder, his hair a smidgeon too long because this was before Harley fixed it for him. His arms are completely bereft of ink.

‘See? No tattoos. That’s because you got them when you were outside.’

It all looks so real. Joker would swear he can even see the lens pixels overlaying those patches of his sightline. It would be so much easier to shut it out if the hallucinations weren’t so convincing. He shakes his head on reflex, rejecting it.

‘It’s a trick, another thing my brain is making up. Part of the break with reality.’

‘Touch them,’ Batman insists. ‘Joker, feel them.’

His body obeys Batman’s command like he doesn’t have another choice. It makes Joker want to cry. He can feel them. His tattoos feel tender like a sunburn. The skin there is more responsive than the rest of his arms, tiny specks of excess ink coming loose at his touch.

‘They’re still new, right? So they’re raised. Healing. You can’t hallucinate physical sensations.’

Joker wants to believe him so badly it makes his adrenaline spike. He longs for it, heart in his mouth with every word. It sounds right—feels right—which is how he knows it can’t be.

He has no logical rebuttal to offer so he just stares at the wall instead. A full minute of silence later, the photos wink out of his periphery. Batman gives a quiet sigh.

‘Okay, how about this. Have you ever tried reading in a dream?’

‘Is this a set-up? I’m not interested in hearing a joke from my brain ghost.’

‘Humour me.’

It shocks a laugh out of Joker, though it sounds more like a hiccup or a cough, garbled and involuntary. Batman made up a pun for him. It’s so unfair. He’s a fantasy tailor-made to break him, water torture by Joker’s deepest desires and fears.

I love you, Joker thinks helplessly. I wish you were real. I love you so much.

‘You can’t read in dreams,’ Batman growls. ‘That’s because you aren’t actually seeing anything in your dreams. It’s just how your brain interprets subconscious thought.’

Batman clicks his tongue like he can tell he’s being confusing, but Joker thinks he gets it. He must be completely gone on him, because it’s enough to lure him out of his silence. Even like this, even here, he can’t stomach the thought of letting his darling struggle.

‘Like how you can’t scream in a nightmare.’

Joker should know. He’s tried it enough to have that eerie feeling memorised, trying to call out for attention only to barely make a wheeze. It’s because his real mouth is asleep. That obvious logic never occurs to him when he’s in the thick of it, though. Instead, he keeps fighting to cry out so someone will find him, meeting the same outcome every time. He can never make a sound, and nobody ever cares.

‘Yes.’ Batman’s audibly relieved. ‘Exactly like that.’

Joker runs a hand down his face tiredly.

‘I can tell where you’re going with this. You want to see me read something? Fine.’

He grabs his copy of Grief is the Thing with Feathers and opens it to where he’s using a clean tissue as a bookmark. He was near the end before the world crashed down around him.

‘I explained that Crow would violate, illustrate and pollute Ted’s work.’ Joker reads it right off the page. ‘It would be a deeper, truly wild analysis, a critical reckoning and an act of vengeance—’

Joker stops there, heart too wounded to go any further. He sets the book back down on the bed.

‘That enough for you? I’m batty, my dear brain Bat, but I’m not asleep. I can read just fine.’

‘Keep going.’ It’s hard to know if it’s a suggestion or an order, rendered through Batman’s low growl. ‘Read to the end of that page, then stop.’

‘No.’

‘Joker.’

‘No,’ Joker snaps, voice raising. He knows from experience that he has maybe 30 seconds at best before he’s going to start crying. ‘There’s no point. Just give up already!’

Give up on me. That’s what he means. They both know it. He’s been beyond help all along, and now the truth of that is revealed like a pulled-back curtain. The smoke and mirrors concealing the Wizard of Oz are all gone. And Joker would do anything to change it, but there’s simply nothing that can be done. This is him, broken and irreparable. There’s no saving him, no fixing him, and the sooner Batman admits that to himself, the better off he’ll be.

Give up on me, darling.

‘Never,’ Batman says.

It’s simple, solemn and it sucks the air out from Joker’s lungs.

‘I am never going to give up on you.’

The off-colour wall beside Joker’s bed shudders in place through the tears filling his eyes. He digs his nails into his ribs to try to force them back. Batman says it like he’s making a vow or swearing fealty to a King, a commitment to the indescribable thing between them.

‘So would you please just open the book and read to the end of the goddamn page?’

Joker’s mirthless chuckle feels just as hollow as his chest. There’s no point trying to argue or ignore him; Joker’s brain ghost is as stubborn as the real thing.

‘Fine.’ Joker blows his hair out of his eyes so he can wipe them quickly with one hand. He snatches his book up again, opening it to where he left off a moment ago. ‘Fine! But I’m not happy about it! And I’m not happy that I’m unconsciously appropriating the sexiest voice on the planet to bully myself into doing it!’

He tries to speedread it, but then he remembers how good the book is. It really is getting close to the end now. The father and his sons are as far through the grief as they’re likely to get, and Joker has a sinking feeling that Crow is about to make his goodbyes.

‘I’m at the end of the page now.’ He feels ridiculous announcing it to an empty room. ‘So you can get on with whatever it is you’re going to—’

‘Crow,’ Batman starts, interrupting him. ‘Permission to leave, I’m done. Shall I final walk the loop, the boys-dad boundary? Hop, look, hop, stop. I dreamt her arm was blue when I found her. Red where I touched, reacted, pecked a little, anything. Non-such matte podginess gave way to bone. Accident in the home. Now turn the page.’

Joker’s spellbound. He doesn’t even notice when Batman stops reading, even with his hand moving to obey him on autopilot. He has Joker in a trance. He scans the first few lines of the next page. They’re exactly how Batman read them. It’s something Joker had no way of already knowing or making up.

‘Accident in the home,’ Batman says again. ‘She banged her head, dreamed a bit, was sick, slept, got up and fell. Lay down and died. A trickle of blood from an ear. Hop, look, sniff, taste. Better not. Total waste.’

God. Joker could listen to him recite the dictionary. He has such a beautiful reading voice, low, confident and calming. But of course he would have. It’s one surprise after another with him. Joker should never have expected anything less.

‘Do you believe me now?’

Joker makes a weak gesture toward the open book.

‘How?’

‘I bought the eBook.’

Joker laughs so suddenly that it takes even himself by surprise. He thinks of everything, doesn’t he? The sudden rush of love that floods him muffles Joker right back into silence.

‘I’m real,’ Batman swears, and all at once it’s not the bed keeping Joker off of the floor. It’s him. There’s no better anchor or gravity in all the world. ‘All of this is real. So whatever Tetch had you believing, forget it. Because here’s the truth.’ Then Batman growls out in one breath, ‘Batman is helping the Joker investigate Arkham Asylum for corruption, and they’re finding a fuck of a lot of evidence.’

It’s putting it mildly. Joker’s trembling beyond his control. He can’t trust a single thing about this rotten place, let alone what it has him believing about himself.

‘What’s happening to me?’

‘I don’t know.’

At least he’s honest, Joker thinks distantly. He doesn’t lie, deceive me or lure me into traps.

There’s a migraine crunching up his head. He feels like he’s been through one of those car-crushing machines. One step through Arkham’s doors and the shadows came to life. One session with Dr. Jervis Tetch, though, and Joker lost his grip on reality altogether. He’d thought that was on him. But if it’s not … if it’s something being done to him, rather than happening passively …

‘This has gone too far,’ Batman says. ‘I’m pulling you out.’

Joker giggles. He can’t stop once he’s started, either. It’s the kind of laughter that has its own taste—bitter and ashen—the same as the hatred unfurling inside him like a virus. It’s spilling through his blood and bones, infecting everything in its path.

‘Don’t I get a say, Bats?’

‘You can’t be serious. You want to keep going?’

‘Very much so.’

‘It’s not safe,’ Batman growls. ‘You were …’

He’s polite enough to trail into silence, but Joker’s spitting nails, fit to be tied.

‘Go on! Finish the sentence.’ He offers a few suggestions of his own when Bats doesn’t take the invitation. ‘Mad as a cut snake? Crazy as an outhouse rat?’

‘Joker, please. I’m not attacking you.’

‘It’s not you I’m mad at, love.’

It’s not. It could never be. All he feels for his sweetheart is gratitude, but right now that warmth is taking a backseat to the hostility splintering his spine.

‘He’s good,’ Joker grants. ‘I’ll give him that. He really had me going!’

He doesn’t care how Tetch did it. He doesn’t even want to know why. All that matters to Joker is that Tetch found a way to do it in the first place, and the absolute certainty in his mind that he can never give him the opportunity to do it again.

‘I thought I was crazy.’ Joker knots his hands into his hair. He’s still laughing between every other phrase, coiling inside like a spring about to snap. ‘I couldn’t move, not even my eyes.’

‘He paralysed you?’

Joker shakes his head. It was worse than that.

‘Everything froze except my mouth,’ he tries to explain. ‘I had no choice. He’d ask a question and it was like somebody else reached into me and used my body to answer. He had me thinking I made it all up. Harley. Even you!’

How dare he. Joker’s seeing flames, halfway out of his own skin. How fucking dare he?

Tetch likes getting inside people’s heads, does he—interrogating what makes them tick—twisting dials until they break? Well, two can play at that game. There are other ways to break into someone’s skull and far more literal ones at that.

‘He took everything from me!’

Joker whoops another laugh, then covers his mouth when he remembers the hospital orderlies could hear him. But it’s just so funny! It’s beyond funny! There is a man in this very building who knows how to unmoor him from everything that’s ever mattered, and then lull him into believing it’s his own fucking fault.

And here’s the thing, it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to unwrap the meat from the warden’s muscles like opening a gift on Christmas morning. There are so many sharp things in his office. Even if there weren’t, it would be no trouble at all for Joker to smash that teapot to shards against the grandfather clock in the corner. Then he would have a weapon. There’s bound to be a silent alarm in that office somewhere, maybe behind the desk or hidden under the metronome. Joker just needs to find it and then he could shut down the entire hospital campus. It would buy him all the time in the world with the good Dr. Tetch.

‘Ever since I got here, things move that aren’t supposed to.’ The shadows, for one. Even Joker’s memories. ‘I thought I was losing my mind.’

‘You’re not. I know you’re not.’ There’s a sound like a catch of breath, or maybe it’s just Batman licking his lips. ‘But Joker, I need you to calm down.’

Calm down? Hah, calm down. As if he could! Doesn’t Bats get it? Doesn’t he understand? Tetch knows how to cut the cord between them, and Joker can’t let that ability go unchecked. The only thing that could calm him down now is Tetch’s tongue, severed out from the man’s mouth. Maybe he’d no longer be a threat once the weapon is removed from between his teeth.

It wouldn’t be enough. Joker knows that as soon as the thought crosses his mind. Silencing Tetch would be a start, but there’s only one way to guarantee this never happens again.

‘I want to kill him.’

It’s heavy like a confession, honest like an oath. Joker means it. Virginia Woolf wrote Mrs. Dalloway in past tense, after all. But Batman won’t hear a bar of it.

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘No. You really don’t.’

He sounds so confident, so certain that he knows Joker better than Joker knows himself, and Joker’s never felt the urge to prove him wrong before but he sure does now.

‘What’s rule number one?’ Batman asks, infuriatingly calm, and— and—

‘I …’

Joker trails off before the thought is even half-formed. That night swims to the surface of his memory, floating there like a water lily. His darling looked so alive in the circus lights on top of Wayne Tower only to look so defeated just hours later in Arkham’s driveway.

It’s a game to you, isn’t it? That’s how you see it?

Then I’m adding a rule.

‘No deaths,’ Joker rasps out. ‘Not yours. Not even mine.’

‘Exactly.’

It was Joker’s first night in Arkham, the night Batman cut his claws for him. Killing isn’t an option. How could he forget that? Joker wraps his arms around himself, hugging his hands close to his body, these hands that could so easily carry out something unforgiveable.

‘Will you … help me?’

Joker swallows. It’s embarrassing but it’s not like he has another option. Batman’s right. He needs to calm down, but that’s easier said than done when everything inside of him is moving too fast.

‘Please, Bats. I can’t … It’s just so quiet in here, and I’m …’

‘Alright.’ He says it all cool and serious, like he’s accepting a mission. Joker even hears his hands firing to life on his keyboard. ‘Give me a minute.’

It’s ambiguous. Joker braces himself for an alarm to start blaring or for the sprinklers in his room to rain to life. It catches him unawares when music purrs to life inside his own skull.

The opening notes seep from the inner-ear communicators right to his ribcage, instantly unwinding the murder from his shoulders and teeth. It’s exactly what Joker needed and didn’t know how to ask for. Doesn’t he know this one? There’s something familiar about the bassline, rolling like delta blues.

The song is most of the way toward the first turn of its chorus before Joker manages to place it.

The boy could sing, knew how to move, everything/Always wanting more, he’d leave you longing for …

Alannah Myles, Black Velvet. Joker can’t help but smile. His darling really does have a favourite colour. He considers telling him the song is actually about Elvis Presley and his devotees but ends up deciding against it. The moment seems too sweet to speak over.

Little by little, Joker feels himself relax, easing back into the pillows for the first time all evening. The song changes once, then again, playing through golden oldies from the ‘80s. He starts to notice other sounds, too. The ceiling lights have a little bit of a hum to them, like a distant gnat or mosquito. It buzzes away until the orderlies call lights out. His room dials into darkness not long after. Bats pulls down the volume to match but he doesn’t turn the music off entirely, and Joker’s grateful for it.

Joker shares a wall with the reading room. He can hear motion through it, muffled voices from inside the little library. Orderlies, probably. He hears them turn on the television but it’s too low for him to know what they’re watching. He can’t imagine there’s much on the Arkham channels at this hour save for infomercials and Late Night News.

‘Do you take requests?’ Joker asks.

‘What do you want to hear?’

‘The Lumineers.’

It’s a more modern choice than what Bats has been playing, but it’s one of Harley’s favourites. She likes to play their debut album when she’s doing laundry or cleaning the kitchen. Now Joker just associates their songs with that sense of easy catharsis—things going back into order—Pine-Sol and coconut fabric conditioner.

Bats picks a good song. Cleopatra. It’s from their middle album of the same name. Joker lets the opening verses wash over him, the understated piano chords, the soft reverb behind the singer’s folk-style vocals.

I would marry you in an instant/Damn your wife, I’d be your mistress just to have you around …

‘What if he’s right?’ Joker murmurs. It’s an anxiety he hadn’t even known he had before Tetch spelled it out for him in that slow southern style. ‘Am I just trying to make it so I’m not the joke?’

I’ve read this script and the costume fits/So I’ll play my part …

The tambourine only kicks in from the middle of the song onward. It underscores the throughline of the bass drum, taking on a faster rhythm like it’s running toward something.

‘He was looking for a reaction and he got one.’ Batman makes it sound so simple, as if it’s not worth wasting the time to think about it. ‘I don’t think you do what you do because you don’t like yourself, if that’s what you’re asking. You do it because it makes you happy.’

‘But why does it make me happy?’

‘Does that matter?’

‘It must,’ Joker replies. ‘You stop me every time.’

Now my nurse in white shoes leads me back to my guestroom/It’s a bed and a bathroom and a place for the end …

It’s one of the last lines. The singer runs through the chorus again, quieter now, strumming the guitar before the words ring to silence. Batman waits until it’s done before he speaks again.

‘And every time, it happens again. It’s almost like I don’t really mind so long as nobody gets hurt.’ There’s a note of amusement there, almost exasperation, but then it falls away to sincerity. ‘Joker, dressing like a jester to make people laugh is only about as weird as dressing as a bat to keep the city safe. If I was in there? I bet they’d make me doubt everything, too.’

It makes it sound like they’re on the same team, like both of them are just helping Gotham in their own ways, not necessarily mutually exclusive. It’s a comforting thought, coexistence; Batman keeping people safe and Joker keeping people laughing.

The song may be finished but it’s still stuck in Joker’s head. He’s better poised to distinguish the difference between those two things now: the earpiece compared to his own imagination. Those lyrics will be with him for a while, he thinks, or maybe just that mental image of himself, costumed after the Queen of the Nile. He’d wear it so well. He’d stay pristine and pretty for his darling, picture perfect and preening. Batman deserves someone beautiful to look at, after all.

‘I would marry you in an instant,’ Joker sings softly. ‘Damn your wife, I’d be your mistress just to have you around. I was late for this, late for that. Late for the love of my life …’

Chapter Text

Joker’s two feeds are relegated to one side as Bruce refocusses the Batcave communications and surveillance equipment on Dr. Jervis Tetch. The security camera from the warden’s office is running alongside a live mirror of his computer monitor. It spotlights the internal email the warden is currently writing, the text appearing on-screen instants after Tetch’s fingers meet the keys.

Alfred is restocking the coffee percolator. He clucks his tongue when he reads part of the email over Bruce’s shoulder.

‘If he had a modicum of sense,’ the butler mutters, ‘Jervis would wash his hands of him altogether.’

Bruce presses his molars together. Alfred isn’t talking about Crane.

‘You should have woken me.’

Alfred lets out a tired sigh.

‘Tied your shoelaces too, sir?’

Bruce spins in his chair to face him head-on, as if he can somehow find a way past the stubbornness if they’re face-to-face. He needn’t have bothered. Right now, Alfred’s morning coat and expectant gaze are tougher than the alloy on the Batmobile.

‘Why didn’t you do anything?’

‘I wasn’t aware I was supposed to.’

‘You should have said something, helped him stay focussed—’

‘To what end?’ Alfred demands. ‘Joker’s comfort, or Jervis’s life?’

It’s maddening. When Alfred convinced Bruce to spill the details on everything since Joker asked him for help, the older man had clicked into caretaker mode. He was even good enough to keep his criticisms to himself as he helped Bruce form a stronger plan. But in the hours since, the butler’s patience seems to have run thin. He’s agreed to sub in as Oracle when Bruce needs to rest or take care of fieldwork, sure. But that doesn’t mean Alfred is happy about it.

And it doesn’t mean he’ll automatically treat Joker as the ally he currently is.

‘Alfred, this is important.’

‘So is your rest,’ Alfred counters. ‘You’re no good to Master Dent if you can hardly keep your eyes open, sir.’

Alfred’s steely gaze flits from Bruce to the monitors. It’s only for an instant at first, but then he directs his attention there properly, muttering something Bruce doesn’t catch. He clears his throat, pointedly inclining his head to the display.

‘And you’ll be no good to him, either.’

On-screen, Joker’s back to his usual self. It’s a relief to see, even if his current choice of activity leaves something to be desired. He’s standing so close to the window in his room that his breaths are making the glass fog— hard, deliberate puffs of air misting the window with condensation.

It’s not clear what he’s doing until Bruce looks to the screen showing Joker’s own point of view. The clown is drawing a big, loopy love heart in the fog with one fingertip, an arrow piercing the shape at either end. Bruce is unfortunate enough to look over just in time to see Joker shaping out the letters J and B right in the centre, then adding X’s and O’s all around them. Alfred just shakes his head.

‘Must you keep such company, sir?’

Bruce bites his tongue. It’s not as if he has a choice. He’d expected Alfred to understand that after he laid all his cards on the table about Harvey and Arkham.

‘You don’t know him,’ Bruce grunts.

Alfred just scoffs.

‘And you do?’

‘Yes.’

It’s more defensive than he’d meant it to be but it’s not a lie. And it’s not a delusion, either. Nobody really knows Joker in the traditional sense. The public and the police know precisely nothing about his true identity and that’s exactly how the Clown Prince wants things to stay. He’s anonymous by design, borderline ethereal with how easily he can disappear for days on end.

Bruce knows Joker in a different sense of the word. He knows his motives, for a start, but it’s more than that. He knows Joker’s style—not just his sense of fashion—the genre of his pranks and schemes, too. He knows how to tell the difference between a genuine Joker smile and a forced one. And the longer they spend in Arkham like this—

—the more Bruce is understanding Joker’s weaknesses.

‘He’s different,’ Bruce insists. ‘He’s not a killer. He could be, if he wanted.’

As far as understatements go, it’s a big one. Joker would be much worse than just that. He’d be pure horror in a purple pinstriped suit, a nightmare Alfred’s negligence nearly brought into the waking world.

It’s the only reason Bruce wasn’t there when Tetch pulled Joker in for his next session. He thought Alfred would have it handled. But the butler’s hands-off approach nearly cost them everything. If Bruce had walked into the cave even one minute later, if he hadn’t wrestled back control exactly then—

All Bruce needed to do was take one glance at the eye tracker software in the lenses. There’s no question about it. Joker was at his breaking point, attention lingering tellingly on Tetch’s jugular, then every sharp object in the doctor’s office.

Tetch’s desktop changes when he finishes writing his email to Dr. Crane and hits send. He smiles in satisfaction as he checks his pocket watch before pouring himself a fresh cup of tea, blissfully unaware of how close he was to death in the hours before.

‘But that’s just it,’ Bruce mutters. ‘Joker doesn’t want that.’

If he did, it wouldn’t have been so simple to talk him back down, to coax him back to reality and away from the sad delusion Tetch hypnotised him into believing. Then when Joker admitted to wanting to kill the doctor for what he’d done, it was exactly that easy to talk him out of that, too.

Bruce can’t stomach how Tetch rattled Joker like that. It’s night and day from their initial consultation. Joker was playing hard to get in that first meeting, teasing and obtuse. But in the second, Tetch had him pinned like a trapped animal. He found a way through the humour and mystery to the vulnerable man beneath.

Bruce thought Joker was more resilient than that. They both did. Maybe it’s not Joker’s lack of resilience, though. Maybe it’s the intensity of the threat he’s up against, the one both of them have underestimated until now.

It was eerie, bringing Joker back from that brink. It wasn’t difficult, which is somehow both a relief and a brand-new thing for Bruce to worry about. It’s proof that Joker sees him like a north star. Before anything else, it’s the Dark Knight Joker believes in. That faith is unshakeable—unbreakable—altogether unearned.

‘Joker’s not just another villain.’ It comes out quiet but firm, Bruce caught by the impulse to defend him. ‘It’s never been that simple.’

Alfred doesn’t scoff outright, for once. Instead, he makes a face like he’s about to argue. He even draws a breath to put words to it. He lets that breath go a moment later, giving Bruce a curious look. There’s something just barely softer than suspicion in his eyes.

Bruce feels overexposed. The way Alfred is looking at him is about as uncomfortable as someone questioning his mysterious absences or asking his celebrity opinion on Gotham’s Caped Crusader.

‘Indeed,’ Alfred says carefully, scrutinising Bruce for a reaction. ‘Then what—’

The supercomputer pings. It’s not any of the Batcave notifications but the standard Windows alert, duplicating from the virtual clone of Tetch’s desktop.

The warden just received a notably terse reply from Dr. Jonathan Crane.

Bruce winces internally. It gives him a kind of second-hand corporate dread. He has to fuck up quite badly to get that amount of passive aggressive double-speak from his secretary Anna. He pulls up the head doctor’s office camera to check in on Crane’s whereabouts.

He opens the camera just in time to see Crane smash a coffee cup against his own wall. It bursts apart in ceramic chunks, leaving a star-shaped stain. Next, the doctor sweeps all his papers and folders from his desk, snarling in the footage on-screen.

The outburst has all of Bruce’s focus in a heartbeat. He moves fast, rearranging the cameras to spotlight Crane storming out into the hallway, circumnavigating the Arkham lighthouse.

The shift in mood isn’t lost on Alfred. He blows out a breath through his nose. Bruce knows he’s going to opt out of the oncoming development even before he opens his mouth.

‘I’ll leave you to it, sir.’ Alfred gathers the last of the coffee cups onto a tray. ‘Try to remember to eat something before dawn.’

Bruce grunts an acknowledgement but doesn’t take his eyes off the screen as Alfred heads for the elevator.

‘Thanks, Al.’

He wheels his chair in closer, until he can see the individual pixels themselves. Then he flips the switch to open the comm line to Joker’s earpiece. The clown’s eyes fly open before Bruce gets a word out, like he can tell he’s no longer alone purely by the sudden onset of dead air.

‘Something’s happening,’ Bruce growls. ‘Crane’s about two seconds from kicking in Tetch’s door.’

‘Ooh, the girls are fighting? This I have to hear.’

Bruce is already on it, piloting the surveillance drone around for a clear view on the warden’s office, telescoping in through Tetch’s window.

‘Patching you in now,’ Bruce says. ‘There’s no mic in the drone, so they’re both going to sound like robots.’

Tetch’s back is to the camera when Crane bursts in, nostrils flaring like twin slits in his face. Bruce sees it in dual feeds: once from his drone on the perimeter, then from the security camera in the upper corner of the room. Neither of them has a front-facing angle on Tetch, so the computer can’t read the warden’s lips. It leaves the conversation one-sided.

‘What do you think you’re playing at?’

Crane demands it the instant the door slams closed behind him. The computer speaks the words on his behalf, interpreting the movement of his lips in a slow monotone. Bruce quickly describes the problem to Joker in the silence where Tetch’s answer should be. The clown doesn’t say a word, listening intently.

The element Joker’s missing—the visual—is a difficult one to parse. Whatever Tetch is saying just seems to make Crane angrier, a vein leaping at the side of his neck. His hair is like straw where it juts across his forehead.

‘Don’t play the fool with me.’ The computer strips the anger out of Crane’s words. ‘We had a deal.’

That’s where Crane repositions. He steps partway around the desk, looming over Tetch with all his lanky glory. Tetch just looks up at him, nonplussed. Crane’s fists are balled so tightly by his sides that it makes his arms shake, pixels jittering to match. Unfortunately, the place Crane steps into at the side of the desk skews his lips to an unreadable angle. It leaves Bruce in the dark as to what’s being said.

Infuriating.

‘Shit.’

‘What happened, darling?’

‘Tech problems,’ Bruce grunts, taking over the controls. ‘Give me a minute.’

He deactivates the drone’s pilot assistance subroutine, sliding his hands into twin gloves to take over manual control. It gives him the precision to position the drone in a riskier place, evading oak branches to get a better angle. Crane’s mouth comes back into view. It even gets him a partial view of Tetch’s mouth where he’s swivelled his chair to face his guest.

It doesn’t matter that it’s not a clean view. The supercomputer processes fast enough to compensate. Bruce punches in the programming code to make it happen, slamming enter the moment he’s done.

‘Got it.’

‘—what’s been eluding you this entire time.’

Tetch sneers it, the computer flattening his words to something toneless. Crane shakes his head.

‘That’s not—’

‘Necessary?’ Tetch chortles on-screen. ‘Oh, but it is. Don’t tell me you’re so keen for another crow.’

Bruce snaps to attention, watching closely as Crane’s mouth tightens into a sharp line. The other doctor steps back like a beaten dog remembering its place.

‘That was a misstep.’ Crane’s eyes are locked to the floor. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘You’re right,’ Tetch agrees. ‘It won’t. I’ll make sure of it.’

Tetch says it like it’s an indulgence, one eyebrow lifting expectantly. All it took was those few moments for Crane’s demeanour to entirely invert. His shoulders are hunched, gaze lowered in either shame, deference or both. Tetch’s sickly smile is saccharine sweet.

‘Now, get out of my office,’ the warden says. ‘And get back to work.’

Crane obeys, spinning on his heel and crashing back out the door. He doesn’t say a word all the way back to his own office, moving stiffly in a sort of janky, twitching gait. Tetch leans back in his grand office chair once Crane is gone, lacing his fingers behind his head. The smirk on his mouth is half-smug, half-Cheshire.

‘Well now,’ Joker says brightly. ‘That’s certainly troubling.’

He’s not wrong.

Bruce rewatches it on the Arkham security feed, then again from the drone recording. He slows it to a crawl in those inaudible moments—studying body language, facial micro-expressions—anything that could help him glean what might have been said. In the end, all he can do is reduce the problem down to the facts.

Tetch reassigning Joker made Crane furious enough to ignore seniority and square up. But Tetch was ready for that, and whatever ammunition he volleyed in answer had Crane simpering away.

It blows a hole in Bruce’s working theory. He thought Crane was keeping Tetch in fear, the warden constantly looking over his shoulder for the phobia expert under his employ. There’s not a lot of room in that theory for the exchange he just witnessed, though.

Unless …

‘This Crow thing,’ Bruce says. Joker hums in agreement.

‘It’s becoming difficult to ignore.’

‘When Tetch brought it up, Crane said it was a misstep.’

‘Methinks the good doctor may have a scandal in his history.’

‘And one that hasn’t gone public. There are no complaints against him, no demerits on his file.’

‘Just a blackbird and a patient who vanished into thin air.’

Joker’s back to lazing on his bed, strewn leisurely on his stomach. He has his head tucked down into the pillows to hide the motion of his mouth. It looks natural enough over the security feed, especially when Joker kicks his legs behind him like a schoolgirl.

‘I love a good mystery,’ Joker murmurs. ‘Don’t you?’

Bruce has a hunch as he runs through the security archive back to the week before Abigail Allaston’s transfer. By those last days in Arkham, she was barely recognisable. Unresponsive and nonverbal, that footage shows her staring eerily from her hospital bed in the clinic, practically comatose. Her book stayed unfinished by her bedside for days on end. It’s the same book Joker would check out from the reading room months later, that inkblot crow perched eternally on its front cover.

Bruce wars with himself before making up his mind.

He starts the pre-flight procedure on the Batwing remotely from his supercomputer. The plane engines immediately rumble to life in their hangar, the sound carrying from the garage next door.

‘Not into thin air,’ Bruce admits, toggling to a mobile communication line. ‘I know where to find her.’

Bruce walks fast for the garage. He seals the cowl into place as he goes, hiding himself away behind Batman.

‘What? Why didn’t you say so sooner?’

‘Complicating factors.’

He starts charting a course from the cave to Metropolis, punching it into the gauntlet datapad— to Alamora House, in particular. It’s hardly ideal—there’s a high probability that he’ll run into Superman—but he can’t afford to leave the lead unexplored any longer than he already has, not when it’s Joker on the line if he doesn’t.

‘I’ll need some time,’ Bruce growls. ‘Two hours max.’

‘Then now’s your best chance,’ Joker says immediately. ‘It’s a little over an hour until supper, and then it’s lights out. The good doctors of Arkham won’t be able to jump me while you’re busy.’

Bruce nods even though Joker can’t see him. He’s clicking into a different mode, more confident with a clear plan in mind.

‘I’ll have Oracle keep an eye on you,’ he promises, though the reassurance seems to go over Joker’s head. He blinks three times in a row, shuttering the lens feed each time.

‘You’ll what now?’

‘Oracle,’ Bruce says again. ‘Think of them like my offsider.’

He’d expected an instant reaction from Joker, something offended and possessive. It comes as a surprise when he takes a pensive moment to process the words instead.

‘I thought,’ Joker says slowly, ‘that you worked alone.’

Bruce falters.

It has him hesitating at the Batwing steps, resisting the sudden need to swallow. He does his best to push it to one side as he climbs into the plane. It’s still there, though—a breath on the back of his neck—a phantom touch he doesn’t know whether to lean into or shy away from.

Joker has a way of making him wonder if he’s not in over his head, even when he’s sure he’s standing in the shallows.

‘Funny,’ Bruce admits, buckling into the pilot’s seat. ‘So did I.’

Chapter Text

This must be how coming out of a coma feels, with his consciousness turned all blurry at the edges and his throat scratched raw. Distantly, Harvey thinks he hasn’t woken up feeling this rough in the neck since he used to go out to punk gigs with Bruce. He’d be nursing whiskey at the bar all night long, scamming assholes with his coin tricks while Bruce found the meanest, ugliest thug in the moshpit and dove into him knuckles first.

It’s a weird thing to be thinking about. Then again, this is a weird situation. His eyes are so sticky with sleep residue that it takes him more than one attempt to get them all of the way open, blinking slowly to take an inventory of his surroundings.

It doesn’t take a lawyer to recognise he’s in a cell. It’s a shoebox of a room, self-contained with a steel toilet in one corner and a frosted glass window high on one wall. The bed he’s waking up on is practically military, more of a cot than anything else. Harvey’s yet to come across a jail cell this clean, though. It’s spotless, sanitised and so silent he can hear his own blood where it’s moving around inside his eardrums.

It’s a hospital, then—has to be—his suspicion confirmed when he realises what he’s wearing. The last time he went into Gotham General for a day procedure, they gave him paper scrubs. But these scrubs aren’t made of paper. They’re thick, practically heavyweight with reinforced seams: anti-ligature design. They’re the kind of clothes you give a psych patient to stop him making a noose.

Go back to sleep, Harv.

The thought breaks out of his reverie like a bad driver on the freeway. It’s a stupid impulse. Harvey physically shakes his head.

No, he tells himself. I’ve slept enough. I need to find out where I am.

You don’t.

It doesn’t sound like Harvey’s inner voice. It’s too distinct, too collected, too … other, eerily different from his own neutral inner monologue. Harvey gets up from the bed, hoping movement will help him abate the feeling. He’s probably just disoriented, given the situation. Impulsive thoughts are a sign of oncoming panic, after all.

He tries to see through the window in the wall first, but it’s too opaque and high up to make anything out. Next, he goes for the peephole in the door. It’s barely three inches tall. He can see a hallway outside and another door opposite his own, a matching one on either side. Harvey can see the top half of his face in the glass, too. His reflection is superimposed there like a ghost.

All at once, the left-hand side of his face morphs into a monster—tight red skin, smoky white hair—with the bulging yellow eye and exposed rotten teeth of something utterly inhuman.

I told you to go to sleep!

Harvey yelps, jumping away from the door like there’s a fire on the other side. What the fuck was that?

Panicking is pointless, Harv.

Covering his ears does nothing to block it out because it’s not coming from anywhere in the room, but from him. It’s inside his own brain, inescapable. And familiar. It’s tugging something deep down in his memory like a loose thread on a coat sleeve, threatening to unravel him.

Listen to me, the voice seethes. I don’t know how you managed to take back control and keep it from me like this. But you need to give it back, and you need to give it back now.

The cell door unlocks with a loud drone. Hospital or prison, these types of doors open remotely but they never open for very long. Harvey doesn’t stop to wonder why or how or who, he just crashes through the door before it can time out and lock itself all over again.

It’s a short hallway, outside. His cell is one of six and none of the others are occupied. One end of the hallway is a dead end. The other brings him to a kind of foyer, with an out of order elevator and a set of gated stairs leading up into darkness. Harvey rattles the gate ineffectually, but it’s no use. There has to be another option. The rest of the foyer is more of a hospital chamber, recessed a couple of steps lower than the rest.

That’s when Harvey sees the baths.

There are three of them, each one massive with muted green exteriors like backyard pools or sensory deprivation tanks. Ageing pipes connect them to the tiled walls, bolted there with brass fastenings. At the other end of the chamber are what look like two reclining dentist’s chairs. Cables and coiling power cords lead from each one to a control unit embedded in the wall behind them. They’re surrounded by medical monitoring equipment. Each chair has a set of six electrodes grouped in a bunch and attached to a wheeled IV pole.

‘This is an asylum,’ Harvey realises aloud. He feels like he’s going to be sick. ‘Is this Arkham?’

Harv, stop. Just stop. Let me deal with this.

‘Fuck you, no. I’m not doing jack shit for you until you tell me why I’m in Arkham fucking Asylum.’

Harvey’s starting to remember where he’s heard the voice before. The courtroom. The witness, he remembers. That’s right, Maroni and that dirtbag DeLuca and their loaded witness.

Hadn’t that witness said something? It had been a trick.

What had the witness said to him?

Things are getting blurry again. The headache pushes in with a vengeance, fatigue and light-headedness suddenly making Harvey unsteady on his feet. He leans against the cool teal tiles for support.

Stop, the voice snaps at him. Stop trying to remember.

‘Fuck off,’ Harvey bites out through grit teeth. ‘I thought you said I was in control.’

You are.

‘Sure doesn’t feel that way to me.’

Whatever passes for restraint in that voice disappears all at once.

You want to remember it so badly? Fine. I’ll let you. But then you have to start listening to what I’m telling you.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Harvey baulks. ‘You’re holding my fucking memories hostage, and you want me to—’

His left hand suddenly flies to his own throat, striking him hard right when he’s in the middle of a sentence.

Shut the fuck up! Stop arguing with me!

Harvey splutters for air, choking on his own spit. The voice forges ahead regardless.

I’ll let you remember, then you let me lead. Those are the terms. Do we have a deal?

The monster demands it of him, no room for leeway or compromise.

Do, we have, a deal?

Harvey pants for breath, clutching his throat protectively. He’s at a disadvantage but he rises to the occasion anyway, rearing like a viper.

‘Why don’t you flip the fucking coin and find out, asshole?’

No sooner are the words out of his mouth than the asylum disappears. For a moment, Harvey’s nowhere; suspended in liquid void. Then level eight of the Gotham City Courthouse erupts out of the oil all at once.

Mr Lawson. There’s DeLuca, the devil in the courtroom. He straightens his crimson tie as he lords over the podium. To ensure there are no misunderstandings here, could I please confirm—the prosecution allowing—that you are alleging to have met Mr. Dent in the past while carrying out the duties of your job?

Harvey sees the entire courtroom like a camera roving through a freeze frame. Judge Vasquez is watching it all from her tower—Maroni’s smirking, lounging back in his chair at the defence table—the witnesses and photographers are eagerly waiting for more drama. Lawson is already in the witness box. His fading grey suit is as middle-aged as he is, the threads in the shoulders about as thin as the hair on his head.

I am, Lawson answers. He’s already starting to sweat.

And can you please clarify the circumstances of this interaction? DeLuca leans tellingly toward the microphone, eyebrows creeping up. Without quoting anyone’s words but your own.

I can. Lawson pulls down a breath, readying himself. I was a first responder to Mr. Dent’s home in 1992 after a report of child abuse by a neighbour.

Harvey is overtaken by a mental image as clear as polished crystal. He can see a white picket farmhouse at dusk, rusting machinery laying in the long wheat grass. An old-style country scarecrow stands watch from a wooden pole. There’s not a sound at all for miles beyond the whistle of the wind.

Then—

Uproar.

Objection! Glen shouts, rocketing out of his seat. Relevance!

The spectators in the gallery are going ballistic. There are so many clicking cameras from the photographers that it sounds like a tsunami in the room with them.

Order! Judge Vasquez demands. I will have order in this courtroom! Mr. Dent, sit down!

He watches himself with surreal detachment. There he is: Harvey “Apollo” Dent, out of his seat at the head of the prosecution table, stalking meaningfully toward the defence with a Kubrick stare. Maroni’s still smirking but it finally wobbles when Harvey vaults the divider between them. The prison guard goes to stop him, holding out an arm to hold Harvey back, and Harvey breaks his wrist in one move. The guard’s sleeve darkens, the bone piercing out through the skin. He stumbles away howling and Maroni swears, his lawyers scattering as Harvey just keeps coming.

That’s when the memory starts skipping backwards and forwards like a scratched disc. There are screams—blood pooling all over the defence table—people are running for the exit in a blind panic. The bailiff is ushering Judge Vasquez into her chambers and there’s a tall man in a green suit wrangling Oswald Cobblepot by the back of the neck like he’s taking him hostage. But that’s all Harvey manages to see because that’s when his vision tunnels in entirely on his own hands.

There’s something horrifically wrong with Harvey’s left hand, even as it’s wrapping around Maroni’s neck. It’s red as blood and throbbing with muscle right to the shoulder. His fingernails aren’t neat and manicured like they’re supposed to be. They’re long, yellow and almost conical, the same shape and texture as hardware screws.

The memory fades to nothing from there, everything melting to oil and void. Harvey opens his eyes to the cold asylum chamber. He’s surprised to find his breathing steady. Maybe panic is right around the corner, waiting to pounce. For now, Harvey just feels calmer, a little more in control with at least that much of his memory back where it belongs.

‘Where’s the rest?’

Believe me, the voice rumbles lowly. You don’t want to see the rest.

It’s the first time yet that the voice keeping his own memories from him has been a welcome divide. He doesn’t want to remember the details. An educated guess is already bad enough. Harvey swallows.

‘Why did you do that?’

We made a deal.

It’s red hot with betrayal, but that’s not what Harvey meant.

‘I mean in the court room,’ he clarifies carefully. ‘Why did you do that to Maroni?’

The voice doesn’t deign to answer. Harvey’s about to push the point when a curt snarl issues out inside his mind.

You were remembering.

The two of them are beginning to overlap enough in the middle that Harvey gets a sense of the other’s emotions alongside those words. Jealousy. It’s too hot to be warm. He says it like he’s coiled all around Harvey as he does, a dragon hoarding his gold.

‘There’s nothing to remember.’

Harvey looks reflexively down to his own hands. He doesn’t realise he’s expecting to see one of them burgeoning red with yellow nails until it’s not there. His own human hand in its place just looks uncanny. He balls it into a fist, stuffing it down by his side.

‘It didn’t happen,’ Harvey snaps. ‘I’d remember if it did.’

He says it with a conviction that only waivers when he hears the words spoken aloud. He hadn’t remembered DeLuca’s witness or what he did to Maroni, either. In a sense, Harvey still doesn’t. The voice is determined to protect him from it, keeping the specifics under lock and key.

That’s different, Harvey tells himself, like he’s reasoning with a child. That was days ago, not years. The voice wasn’t there back then.

I have a name, Harv.

That’s right. He does, doesn’t he? Harvey knew that—knows that—though he couldn’t begin to guess at why. Another ream of the coat sleeve is coming unravelled. He can’t stop himself pulling further on that thread.

‘What is it?’

You already know.

Harvey’s left hand raises of its own accord, pointing one red finger at the narrow window in the door.

Look.

Harvey goes to the window in a sort of trance, aware that something is rearranging the furniture in his mind.  In his reflection, he sees it again; his own face, bifurcated down the exact centre like a book fold. But this time, he’s ready. On his right side, he’s the man he’s always been—Harvey “Apollo” Dent—the best defence attorney Gotham’s ever had.

On his left, he’s entirely another.

The skin there is so red it’s as if it’s been dipped in blood, the gums drawn back until the teeth seem gauntly skeletal. His eyebrow matches the hair on that side of his scalp, white as November clouds. It’s his wide yellow eye that Harvey remembers the best, though. His sclera is as yellow as his teeth, the iris filled to bursting with blood. That two-toned eye flits and rolls independently of Harvey’s own, until it locks right on his reflection, staring at him.

‘Two-Face?’

Harvey chokes on the name. He’d be crying, if he could. Instead, it’s like he’s been struck by lightning, any moisture electrocuted out from under his eyes. His other half just purrs.

In the flesh.

Harvey hiccups a strangled laugh. Anyone else would think him ugly. To Harvey, Two-Face just looks like home. Lost memories are coming back to him now like flipped tiles: Two-Face comforting him, distracting him, shielding him, guarding him.

From what? That’s the part that hasn’t quite come into focus, though the shape is becoming undeniable. What happened to me? What the fuck did dad do to me?

‘It’s good to see you,’ Harvey rasps.

No, it’s not.

It stings. Two-Face self-corrects immediately.

Not like that, Harv. He says it the way you’d speak to an old friend having a bad day. It’s the softest Harvey’s other side has sounded this entire time. I never wanted you to remember.

‘You?’

Any of it.

Harvey can’t believe what he’s hearing. There’s shame in Two-Face’s voice, like he failed— like he somehow let Harvey down, faultlessly protecting him from debilitating childhood trauma for nearly three decades straight. Two-Face recoils. Harvey can physically feel his other half getting ready to argue.

That’s when a concealed door in the medical chamber rattles open in the wall. It rolls to one side, leaving a dark void in the old-style tiles. It’s too dark inside to see what that ominous corridor contains. There’s a noise coming from wherever it leads, though. It’s high and warbling like a cat’s meow, the innate call for help that every human being is born with.

He can hear a baby crying.

Two-Face knows what Harvey wants to do even before he knows it himself.

Absolutely not, he snarls. Forget it.

‘Two-Face.’

It’s not happening.

‘Two-Face,’ Harvey insists, then swallows. ‘Buddy, Gilda’s pregnant.’

It silences Two-Face entirely. Maybe he’s gone quiet out of respect for the montage happening in Harvey’s memory—Gilda, too scared to look—covering her eyes as she came out of the bathroom holding the stick. He got her pee all over his hand when he wrestled it from her to check, but that didn’t matter even a little bit the instant Harvey saw those two pink little lines.

‘We were going to wait until after the trial,’ he explains, eyes leaking. ‘But we couldn’t help ourselves. She’s due in April.’

Saying it aloud shocks a watery laugh out of him. Two-Face is the first person either of them have told, as far as Harvey knows. But that’s just it. He has no idea how long he’s been in here, hibernating while Two-Face bears the brunt of his rehabilitation. Gilda was three months along when the trial started, their unborn baby about the size of a fig. It’s impossible for him to know how far gone she is now; whether that crying baby down the corridor could even be his own.

‘We’re going to be a dad, buddy.’

Two-Face is only bitter.

You are.

‘Both of us,’ Harvey insists. He can feel what Two-Face is afraid of, physically sense it like breath on the back of his neck. ‘I’m not forgetting you again.’

Harv, it’s one or the other.

It doesn’t matter that it’s vague. They share a brain. Harvey understands immediately. The choice isn’t between Gilda and him. It’s between stability and him. That’s the ultimatum Harvey has to balance. Any life without that life-ruining trauma hanging over him, by necessity, cannot include Two-Face.

So stop remembering, Two-Face warns. Because the more you remember, the more you’ll need me.

It’s the price of admission. If Harvey wants Two-Face to stay, he has to remember. But remembering the wreckage of his old family could cost him the new one he’s building with Gilda. Harvey digs the heel of his palm into his eye.

‘Did I fucking stutter?’ he demands. ‘I am not forgetting you again.’

Harvey’s left side overflows with heat. It’s too hot to be warm—jealousy and contentment, wrapped into one—and he knows without doubt that he said exactly the right thing.

In hindsight, he probably should have guessed that the secret door would snap closed behind him the instant he passed the threshold. He spins on his heel when it does, smacking that part of the wall. If there’s a mechanism to get it back open again, he can’t find it without the light from the chamber to help. There’s no other choice, then. The only way out is through.

Harvey toes his way through the lattice of electrical cords threading through the corridor. His eyes adjust, little by little. The floor itself is an iron grill. It helps to hide the several circular vents— that is, until those vents start hissing out brown steam. It reeks—smells like burned tyres and melting metal—and Harvey coughs like a pack-a-day smoker, pulling his collar up to his nose. It rides his hospital shirt right up his midriff. The gas just keeps coming, thickening within moments until it’s a murky fog clouding the entire space.

‘Jesus,’ Harvey mutters, squinting around in revulsion. ‘What the fuck is this place?’

The silence answers him. Even the baby has stopped crying. Harvey hesitates.

‘Two-Face?’

Again, nothing. Two-Face doesn’t acknowledge him even a little.

‘Fine,’ Harvey mutters. ‘Sulk all you want.’

But it doesn’t feel like the silent treatment. Two-Face’s sudden absence is so complete that it’s really more like he isn’t there to begin with.

The room beyond the corridor is a dilapidated mess, stagnant with time and decay. It might have been a storage area once upon a time, going by the rotten crates and empty chemical drums. Harvey can already smell the mould. Broken medical equipment and furniture make the back room into something like a maze.

‘911, what’s your location?’

Harvey flinches. He opens his mouth to answer, only falling short of doing so because he wouldn’t know how to answer: Arkham or hell. The dispatch operator is direct and to the point. She needs an address before anything else so that they can mobilise police.

‘Hello?’ The operator keeps saying it, just like her training. ‘911. Hello?’

And Harvey opens his mouth to answer—

—but someone else gets there first.

‘Hi.’

It’s a child’s answer, small and high-pitched. The operator’s tone softens immediately.

‘Hi, sweetie. This is 911. Can you tell me where you are?’

‘Home?’

‘Home, okay. And where’s home, sweetie?’

Harvey follows the voices through the detritus, sidestepping what he can, slowly moving around the empty metal drums and those nauseating patches of dark residue. It takes him right up to an operating table straight out of hell. It’s falling apart, earthy stains and white charring encroaching at the edges like it’s gone undisturbed for longer than Harvey’s been alive. He notes in particular the leather straps, meant to restrain patients without anaesthetic.

The workstation is no better. There’s a splashback of white finger tiles, so worn and out of place that they look more like broken piano keys in a horror movie. They’re host to dozens of EEG readings all streaked with black mould, and there’s a modern black speaker right in the middle of the operating table, vibrating as it the call recording its volume.

‘Alright,’ the operator says. ‘Police have been alerted and are on their way. Okay, sweetie?’

BANG

Open the door! You open this fucking—

BANG

—door right now, filth!

It can’t be him. It can’t be. Harvey hasn’t heard his father’s voice in so long. He’d forgotten it, but now he’s remembering it in its entirety— the horrible, world-shattering power it commanded over him as a babe. He wheezes three words at the exact same time as the child.

‘He found me.’

The operator types something quickly on the other end of the line.

‘What’s happening now?’

‘Dad’s trying to get into my room,’ the child says quietly. ‘He’s gonna kill me.’

BANG

That’s fucking right. You’re dead, do you hear me?

BANG

You’re dead, you piece of shit!

It paralyses Harvey right to the frontal lobe and central nervous system. He’s unable to run or rally or even really to react, wheezing when he tries to scream.

‘Sweetie, does he have a weapon?’

BANG

‘Yeah,’ the child answers. ‘An axe and a rifle.’

BANG

‘Okay, sweetie.’

I’ll make you fucking scream when I get in there, filth.

‘Police are almost there, okay?’

Harvey’s travelling through time, his terror like an event horizon, piercing through history to connect the two moments with a wormhole. He can still hear the axe slamming against the door.

BANG

BANG

CRACK

The sound abruptly changes, the wooden door finally giving up the ghost. Harvey whimpers. The operator keeps talking, trying to keep the caller calm.

‘Everything’s going to be fine, sweetie.’

CRACK

I’ll kill you.

CRACK

I’m going to fucking kill you.

He means it. He means it. The rifle is loaded and he’s already dug the hole under the back porch.

Hole? Harvey’s hysterical inside, rallying back at every thought. What hole? What the fuck are you—

It rips through his synapses like a nuclear bomb, obliterating all of the careful scaffolding Two-Face built to keep it contained.

No-one’s ever gonna look for you, filth. His dad dug that hole to bury him in, then forced Harvey to crawl down into it every day for months on end. Crying already? He’d made him stay down there for hours. What’s the matter, sook? Then he’d pour in lard and oil and fertiliser right over the top of him, taunting him, jeering the whole time. What, you wanna come out?

Let me out.

‘Yes,’ he sobs. ‘Please, dad. Please let me out.’

Let’s let the coin decide. How about that? Call it, boy. Heads or tails?

‘Heads!’ Harvey shouts it before his father can get there first. ‘Heads, you let me out!’

Because it’s always heads. It’s always heads. It has to be.

Sure, his dad agrees, flipping the coin with his thumb. Heads, you win.

Thank God. Harvey’s crying with relief, so desperate to be out of the dirt, to be somewhere safe.

Tink!

The coin soars up into the air, flipping end over end.

Whoosh-whoosh—

Heads, I let you out.

Whoosh-whoosh—

Ting.

His father catches it, covering the coin with one hairy hand while Harvey watches and waits from down in the dirt. It’s heads on both sides. But then his dad smiles. Harvey’s stomach turns with nausea.

Well, would you look at that, his dad smirks, peering down into the hole. It’s tails, Harv.

LIAR!

Two-Face bellows it from deep inside his psyche and his dad is shouting threats, the door splintering as the axe breaks through, and Harvey is frozen solid with fear somewhere between the hospital and the hole, unable to speak, unable to breathe, unable to stop the operator’s next words.

‘Can you tell me your name, sweetie?’

Tandem doors shatter in an instant, one made from wood and the other made from Harvey’s own mind. He never hears the answer. Two-Face erupts out of confinement with a roar, shouldering Harvey out of the way as he does, and Harvey either loses time or maybe he just loses consciousness. He’son the other side of the operating table when he comes to, his knuckles burning. The speaker is a smoking mess between his left fist and the asylum wall.

Harvey stands there trembling, his hand screaming with pain. He has no idea what to do. He’s too scared even to move. That terror crunches up another gear when more fumes start pouring in through the vents. It’s thick and it’s foul, that horrible burnt rubber smelling like an engine leak, poisoning every breath of air he takes. Harvey’s voice is barely a whisper.

‘Two-Face?’

I’m here.

The response is instant, immediate, those two words enough to break what little resilience Harvey had left. He’s sobbing openly now.

‘I’m scared.’

I know.

‘Please take over.’

I can’t. Two-Face sounds strained, despite being disembodied. It’s like he’s lifting something heavy or stretching himself too far. It’s the gas. He’s using it to separate us.

‘What do I do?’

Sleep.

Yes, please. Sleep sounds perfect with the weight of the gas dragging down his eyelids. It’s so much easier to breathe through his mouth than his nose. Then he realises what Two-Face just told him. He grabs onto those words with everything he has left.

‘What,’ Harvey murmurs with a sleepy tongue. ‘Who?’

Just go to sleep, Harv.

No. Damn it, no. Harvey fights the rising fatigue, even as it starts deafening him. Darkness is creeping into his vision. He needs to know what’s coming, needs to know how he can protect them the same way Two-Face has been protecting them for all these years. Harvey groans.

‘Who’s doing this to us?’

It’s a hallow silence. The whole world is fading out until Harvey can’t hear the hissing gas or even his own laboured breathing. He hears Two-Face, though. It’s a direct line of communication, an inseverable connection with the one thing in this life that’s always been Harvey’s, just the same as Harvey has always been his.

Him, Two-Face snarls. The Scarecrow.

Harvey comes back to himself three feet tall and all alone on the farmhouse floor.

It’s the cars that wake him up, the police and paramedics slamming their doors before they leave. He clambers up onto the front windowsill to watch them go. The ambulance leads the way, then all the police cars behind it, a motorcade ferrying his father’s body in a zippered polyethylene bag. Harvey sees the back of his own head through the rear window of the final squad car as it drives away. Distantly, he thinks he can remember part of that drive into town.

The power’s out in the farmhouse. He finds that out when he tries flipping the light switch back and forth to no avail. The fuse box is down in the basement, but that’s not it. It will be the generator, out in the shed and long since drained of fuel.

There are bullet casings all over the floor from the policemen’s service revolvers. He finds them with his feet in the dark, shuffling to avoid rolling on them like marbles. They’re clustered at the bottom of the stairs, right by the front door. Harvey feels oddly calm about that— that, and the busted open wreckage of his bedroom door at the top of the stairs. The police took the axe into evidence but left the broken chunks of wood where they lay. One of those splinters is in his arm, right at the back of the elbow and big enough to leave a scar. In years to come, he’ll cover it up with a photorealistic coin’s head tattoo.

Harvey finds his way back to the windowsill before long, climbing up to kneel on the cushion there. It’s black as pitch outside, still hours from the dawn. The full moon lets him see some of the eerie farmland: the long grass shivering in the breeze, the empty pole standing between the house and the road. There’s not a sound or a soul in sight.

Something’s wrong.

Everything’s wrong, part of him screams back. What the fuck?

But there’s something specific, something staring him right in the face.

He scans across the farmland again, hunting from left to right. There’s the broken-down tractor, and there’s the sign over the gate to the property. The empty pole stands watch over unkempt grass, moving in the wind.

Harvey’s spine turns to ice.

The pole, he realises in horror. It’s empty. So where is the—

CREEEEAK …

A shadow falls across the window and Harvey’s heart drops, threatening to stop beating altogether when the broken porch light flickers on unprovoked.

The Scarecrow is right there on the other side of the glass, not even five feet away. It’s dragging a scythe in one hand and clutching a World War II-era gas mask in the other, the kind that leers outward like a mosquito’s proboscis. Hay bale stuffing leaks from houndstooth plaid. There’s a noose tied around its neck, frayed to match its ghastly hessian face. Twin jagged slits carve lines from brow to cheekbone, and there are human eyes inside those holes, burning there like a coal fire. It fixes Harvey with a grin that stitches right across the hessian, every tooth another needle.

Run.

Harvey tumbles backward from the sill, crashing to the ground and scrambling up from all fours. Then he runs. He tears through the house and out the back door.

Get out.

That’s his only goal, fear taking him over. Have to get away, can’t let it catch me. Where? Fuck, where can he go? The barn is too far; the Scarecrow will be here before Harvey makes it all the way there through the grass. His heartrate is going faster, faster. It’s coming, have to get away. Can’t let it catch me. Have to hide.

Hide.

It’s his only choice, and there’s only one place he can get to in time. Harvey climbs under the porch, trying hard not to scream. His vision lurches as he lowers himself down into the hole with trembling limbs. Everything around him is distorting in the panic. He’s not getting enough air when he breathes. His vision warps again, spasming, sending him somewhere else.

And Harvey is shuddering in and out of reality and the farmhouse is doing much the same, hurling him from the rusty operating table to the hole beneath the back porch over and over and over again. Even the Scarecrow is becoming a psychiatrist periodically, his scythe a scalpel; his gas mask, an anaesthetist’s tube.

‘Resounding success,’ Dr. Scarecrow hums. ‘As I suspected, gaseous formula VIII combined with aural stimuli from subject five’s past has broken through mental barriers entirely. This allows the protector-type personality to be summoned or dismissed as required.’

The words swim in and out of Harvey’s head without him understanding any of them, heart thundering against his ribs. He can’t move, why can’t he move, the Scarecrow looming over him like a nightmare come to life. There’s something hugging his face and he flinches back, but there’s nowhere to go. Harvey’s on his back, horizontal—oh, fuck—he’s on the operating table, strapped to it with no way to get free.

‘Now, onto the next phase.’ The Scarecrow attaches a new gas bottle quickly and efficiently, forcing Harvey to breathe something entirely new. ‘Gaseous formula IX. Dosage has been raised for subject five in accordance with the reduced efficacy and duration seen in subject two.’

He practically spits the last word, his hypodermic teeth dripping with loathing. Harvey’s vision twists and all at once, that yawning maw has the scope of a black hole, an inescapable singularity dragging him toward it. Get away get away GET AWAY. Harvey screams, howling in terror, wanting to crack his own head open on the wall just to make it stop. Whatever he’s breathing now is worse—smells worse, feels worse—the Scarecrow turning the dial on the gas bottle, the black hole pulling him further and further into hell.

‘After all,’ the Scarecrow notes. ‘I’ll accept nothing less than complete fusion of identity.’